


With the Weapons of a Woman

by Soledad



Category: Battlestar Galactica (1978)
Genre: Character Background, F/M, The Pitfalls of Caprican society
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-02-20 11:38:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 78,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13145892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: A possible background story to Serina. Who she was, how she became Apollo's wife and what her motivation might have been. Slightly AU in places.





	1. Introduction

“Battlestar Galactica” was my first love as sci-fi shows go. I’ve first seen it in the late 1980s, when it was a relic already, the copies had a poor quality and the whole thing ran on German TV, with German dubbing. I was instantly hooked nonetheless. Despite the often inconsistent plotlines, the sometimes crappy writing and the sketchy characterization, the old show had a unique charm that was never recaptured. Not in the forgettable "Galactica 1980", and most certainly not in the so-called re-imagined show that I won’t even waste any words on.

I don’t care how much longer the new show had been on the air – or how many devoted fans it has. I’m not one of them. I honestly gave it a chance and lasted, oh about ten minutes before turning off the telly in disgust. For me, there is and always going to be only one “Battlestar Galactica” – the original one. Deal with it… or simply ignore my stories, as they will always only be about the classic.

Now, this particular story is about Serina, whom I started off to like a lot. My very first BSG episode was “The Tombs of Kobol”, and I found her quite heroic… at first. But in hindsight (and after much thought and reading lots of fanfic) my original sympathy slowly faded away. After having re-watched the episodes featuring her in original and on DVD, I found her selfish, manipulative and ruthless – which might be a result of inconsistent writing or the fact that her character was turned upside down on a whim. I don’t exactly know why, but I’ve come to dislike her very much.

Characters I dislike usually make me think about them a great deal. I want to figure out why they’ve turned out the way they have, what were their motivations, what has shaped them. This story is the result of such considerations about Serina’s possible past. It’s in no detail canon and only one of the many possibilities. You’re welcome to disagree; we all have our own version, I suppose.

Interestingly enough, as I was writing the story, I’ve come to tolerate her a little better again. I don’t think I’ll come to actually like her by the end, but she’s become more than she used to be for me, and that’s good, I guess.

This is an old story, finished almost six years ago, and it took me two years to write. I've just recently realized that it hasn't been posted here yet, so I thought I'd offer something my readers while struggling with the translation of the latest installment of the "Lost Years" series. There will be daily updates, thanks to Christmas break.


	2. Prologue - Prodigal Daughters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Count of Lorraya – or indeed, Lorraya itself as an Aquarian province – is Karen’s invention. Lyra was originally the name given to Serina's character, so I thought it would be good enough for her mother.

**PROLOGUE – PRODIGAL DAUGHTERS**

Scandals were a rare thing in the reserved circles of Caprican nobility; even minor ones. The Caprican elite had been bred and trained for countless generations to deal with their little indiscretions… well, _discreetly_. After all, the Great Houses could count their ancestors back to the Lords of Kobol themselves – at least theoretically. They had both the power _and_ the money to cover up just about anything that would reflect badly on their historically important names.

It was therefore fairly shocking that thirty-some _yahrens_ before the Destruction _two_ rather outrageous events happened, within a couple of _yahrens_ of distance from each other.

The first one was _Siress_ Electra’s unfortunate involvement with a quite… unsavoury man of no rank, no breading and no money at all – not to mention of questionable character. With that, the family dealt quickly and efficiently, sending her away to her mother’s people on Leonis and marrying her off to _Sire_ Uri, President Adar’s right-hand-man, a _yahren_ or so later. Fortunately for everyone, the child born from her scandalous affair had died right after birth, so there were no further inconveniences to deal with,

The second such event was the shocking action of _Siress_ Lyra, the youngest member of the Caprican Planetary Council, who’d gone and Sealed with a commoner, behind her parents’ back and without their consent. And while civilian unions could be divorced, Sealings could _not_ , and thus the family – a moderately wealthy and not particularly important one with a small residence on Naiacap – couldn’t do anything against the _mésaliance_.

Oh, they disowned her, of course. But that was a family matter, and while it _did_ result in her losing her seat in the Planetary Council as a councilwoman, they kept her employed as the one to deal with public relations. After all, she was young, talented and stunningly beautiful, with an uncanny knack to get people do what she wanted from them – and remarkably ruthless in pursuing her goals.

All these useful traits she passed down to her daughter and only child, Serina – alas, together with the less useful tendency of falling for the least suitable man, fast and hard.

At least Serina had the common sense _not_ to seal with her Boreas. They’d had a civil union, right when she came of age, and that was all he’d ever have, keeping her an easy way out if she wanted. She’d learned from her mother’s mistakes, even though she was bent to make her own ones.

She didn’t divorce Boreas, after all… well, _hadn’t yet_ would have been the better word for it. Partly because of their little son, who needed a father, and partly because as a married woman Serina could afford liberties that would have led to disapprovingly raised eyebrows, had she been unattached.

It was a stupid prejudice, for sure, but Caprican society _was_ a little stiff. Most of the Great Houses of Caprica followed the rigid, orthodox Kobolian faith that judged women according to their partners or male kin’s reflected importance. A woman without a _protector_ would have been considered either as woefully abandoned or as one of questionable moral attitude.

Of course, had she been nobility, many things would have been easier. She never forgave her mother to have Sealed with such an unsuitable commoner – not that she’d even remember her father. Lyra, while she couldn’t divorce him, sure as Hades threw him out on his ear as soon as she’d come to her senses (which happened four or five _yahrens_ after their Sealing). She did it very publicly, and that fact earned her some semi-acceptance from her own circles again. Enough to rebuild some of her old contacts and alliances.

 _Siress_ Electra – or _Siress_ Uri as she was called now, following some arcane Leonid custom and having taken on her husband’s name – was one of those contacts, and the most useful one of all. Especially after _Sire_ Uri – despite being a Leonid – got elected as the Governor of Caprica and became one of the great orchestrators of the Renaissance.

Many young, talented men and women were given the opportunity to prove themselves in those days. Granted, most of them came from the lesser nobility, but the financial progress created jobs and chances for the common folk as well, despite the war. But again, the war had been going on for so many centuries already that no-one could remember what life might have been like _before_.

 _Sire_ Uri’s townhouse in Caprica City had become the gathering place for young men and women from different colonies, all eager to find a position matching his or her special talents and ambitions. Due to Lyra’s friendship to _Siress_ Uri, Serina was, if not exactly welcome, but at least accepted among them. In hindsight, those _yahrens_ proved very useful, as she got acquainted with a great deal of people from the highest circles, patricians and lesser nobles alike, some of whom would even remember her later, when she was no longer one of them.

That day came sooner than she’d have counted on. She was barely twenty when Lyra died in an unexpected Cylon raid, while visiting one of the outer colonies – a simple agricultural world that sold its products directly to the Caprican Planetary Council.

Fortunately, she’d been a shrewd businesswoman and left her daughter with enough money to last for a few _yahrens_ , until she could stand on her own feet. Boreas, as a little clerk of the city administration, barely earned enough to feed himself, let alone an entire family. But with her death, many of the doors that had been open for Serina, closed with a finality that was truly sobering.

She understood the reasoning. Her _mother_ had been a noblewoman, despite having fallen in disgrace. _She_ was not. In Caprican society, it was always the father whose origins counted, and Serina’s father had been a commoner – and a cubitless one at that. She was the result of an embarrassment, and now that her mother was out of the picture, most people didn’t want to be reminded of the scandal that had led to her existence in the first place.

One of the few doors still open to her was that of _Sire_ Uri, and she didn’t hesitate to use what little chances were left to her. Having inherited her mother’s practical mind, she persuaded Boreas to let her sell Lyra’s spacious house in the countryside and move into a small apartment in Caprica City, where she had the best chance to become a media personality. She knew enough about the upper ten thousand – or about the upmost thousand, for that matter – to turn that knowledge into good money eventually, but she was still too young to get any sensible work beyond being pretty and making _kava_.

So she accepted a scholarship at the Art and Media School as one of _Sire_ Uri’s protégées – and the support of a young Aquarian nobleman who’d become interested in her. Not interested enough to Seal with her, for which she’d have discarded Boreas without a second thought, but interested enough to provide the financial means for a lifestyle required if she wanted to keep cruising in the circle of nobility – if not as an equal, then as a newswoman, always hunting for the next interesting piece of gossip.

Knowing people’s dirty little secrets helped her to get the opportunity she needed to get her hands on the serious topics. Those meant headlines _and_ a constant presence in the visual media, which was her next goal. She knew once she got enough screen time she’d win. Her exquisite beauty transferred well onto the screen. She could sell the audience just about anything, if she batted her long eyelashes prettily enough.

Her patron, Patroclus, came from one of the respected patrician families of Aquarius. In fact, his father was the Count of Lorraya, and while he could afford to choose a profession of his own liking – being a third son and thus having no family obligations towards politics _or_ the military – he was also wealthy enough to keep a _maitresse_. Even such a beautiful and… costly one as Serina.

He’d chosen to study medicine and was said to be a capable doctor who loved his work. So he had no objections to Serina working on a career of her own, as long as she was available whenever he wanted her – either in his bed, or to adorn his arm on some grand social event. He carried her around like some rare prize, like a valued possession; but while doing so, he unwillingly provided her with the opportunity to gather knowledge about the power games going on silently behind the scenes. For an ambitious newswoman, it was Heaven.

The three _yahrens_ they’d spent together were not unpleasant; and Boreas had quickly learned to stay quiet, if he didn’t want to lose his family entirely. Aquarians being a lot more open-minded than Capricans, Patroclus also introduced Serina to a great number of refined tricks that could increase sexual gratification – a training that proved most useful in the future.

Their mutually satisfying affair ended when Patroclus had taken his final exam as a surgeon and was assigned to the _Rising Star_ , the up-to-the-art, most exquisite luxury cruiser, owned by _Sire_ Uri, as the head doctor of the ship’s infirmary. His departure meant for Serina that she’d have to fend for herself and her little son in the future – as Boreas didn’t really count, hadn’t counted for quite some time. He was just a name that shielded Serina from the malevolent gossip she couldn’t have repelled as a single mother with a child.

By that time, she’d already landed a good job by one of the greatest networks of Caprica City and had IFB firmly in her eye. She wanted to send reports from the front line, to become famous, a living legend of newscasting. Fame would mean more money and, eventually, a more suitable husband; perhaps even a return to nobility by marriage.

She was on her best way to achieve her goal. But then came the unexpected peace offer from the Cylons, and life on the Colonies changed forever.


	3. Chapter 1 - The Destruction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are pretty much canon events here – only seen through differently-coloured glasses. Serina’s report is a rewritten version of that from the pilot episode. I changed the Presidium to Capitolium, as – in my understanding – Caprica was the leading power among the Colonies, so I assumed that the _Quorum of Twelve_ would be seated in Caprica City, too. The Presidium only means the seat of the Planetary Council here.

**CHAPTER 01 – THE DESTRUCTION**

Serina stood in the middle of the Capitolium of Caprica City – a huge, open square, paved with flat quadrants of rough stone and surrounded by the enormous pyramidal buildings that housed the _Quorum of Twelve_ , the Planetary Council and all sorts of governmental organizations. Her technicians were setting up the equipment for the holovid reportage she was about to broadcast to all the inner colonies – the ones with the capital C – and while they were working, she used the momentary calm to silently celebrate her private little victory.

Getting the job had _not_ been easy. Every newswoman and political analyst at the network wanted to be the one who’d make _the_ broadcast of the century; most of them older, more experienced and much better trained than her. But she had advantages none of the others had: a beautiful face, framed by long, shiny auburn hair, wide green eyes, a full, sensuous mouth that always seemed to smile faintly with unspoken promises she never intended to keep, not to mention a slim, curvaceous body that matched the Caprican ideal of beauty to a degree that it was almost unnatural.

She hadn’t had to do anything as mundane as actually securing this job by paying for it with sexual favours; she’d never do that. Being the _maitresse_ of an aristocrat was one thing – even socially accepted to a certain degree – but selling oneself for the chance of professional progress was just _not_ done.

But it hadn’t been necessary, either. She had the art of subtlety on her side; the indirect ways of seduction she’d learned as young _Sire_ Patroclus’ _maitresse_. How to make vague promises by body language alone. How to ensnare people – and _not_ only males – by looking vulnerable. How to use her beauty to make them _want_ to do her bidding.

She’d been working towards this chance – _the_ chance of her budding career – for over a _yahren_. It had not always been easy. It required patience, which wasn’t exactly her forte, and besides, the studios were full of eager and ruthless people working towards the same goal. Now, however, she was on the threshold of the big breakthrough. When she’d made the broadcast of the century, she’d be a face known to millions.

Admittedly, she’d hoped to become one who’d make reports from the war. Appearing amidst death and destruction as an angel from home would have made great effect. But being the face that would be the symbol of unexpected peace after thousand _yahrens_ of constant warfare would perhaps be even better. She’d become a powerful symbol on all Twelve Worlds; one that people would never forget again.

Her ear-receiver announced thirty _microns_ to air time, and she got into position in front of the cameras. She regretted a little that she had to wear the unattractive hooded tunic reporters usually wore when broadcasting from location. She’d have preferred to be etched into people’s memory in a rich gown that would bring her beauty to full effect, but that would have been unprofessional. And she _needed_ to appear professional and competent now. To prove that it had not been her looks – or her patron – alone that helped him to get the job. There would be ample chances to charm the audience out of their minds later.

As the count worked down to zero, she spot-checked the scene around her. She was pleased with the artistic flower arrangements adorning the row of residential pyramids in the background. She particularly liked the raised quarter-circle of brightly-coloured flowers spelling out the word PEACE in Old Kobolian. Above that word were fluttering the flags of all Twelve Colonies.

It was an impressive arrangement, and would be a marvellous background for the celebrations that would immediately break loose, as soon as the peace treaty was officially announced. The Capitolium was slowly filling with people, wearing their most festive garb, eager to celebrate the end of the era and the birth of a new, hopefully better one.

The count reached zero, and the red light on Morel’s camera came on. Sarina focused her attention on her pre-prepared speech, schooled her face in an expression of well-controlled excitement and started to speak.

“Serina here, at the Capitolium in Caprica City, where preparations continue as they have continued through the night for the ceremonies as orchestrated by President Adar and _Sire_ Uri to be commenced when the long-awaited announcement is broadcast here for the peace conference.”

She gestured to her cameraman to widen the focus of the transmission, so that her viewers could see more of the place, while still keeping her in the centre.

“As you can see, even though it’s early dawn here, large crowds of people are already gathering at the Capitolium,” she continued. “Anticipation is growing as Capricans ready themselves to begin a new era of peace and prosperity. I can see _Sire_ Antipas, the youngest member of the Planetary Council leaving the Presidium; he’s agreed to inform us about the current stand of things.”

She moved to the side just a fragment; just enough to allow the ambitious young aristocrat to move into the focus with her, but not enough for him to shut her out of it. This was _her_ great day, and he – albeit unwillingly and most likely unknowingly – only served to emphasize her importance.

“Greetings, _Sire_ Antipas,” she turned to him with a brilliant smile very few men could have resisted. “Is there any news from the _Pacifica_?”

Antipas, handsome young twig of an ancient, though not terribly influential Caprican House, shook his dark head.

“So far, details of the armistice meeting going on at this very moment on the President’s ship are not coming in as we had hoped for. It seems that this is due to unusual electrical interferences, which are blocking out all interstellar communications,” he explained.

“You mean we have no contact whatsoever with President Adar’s ship… or with the rest of the Fleet?” Serina asked with a frown. “That’s… unusual.”

Antipas shrugged. “We’ve not even yet received official announcements regarding the rendezvous with the Cylon emissaries,” he admitted a little reluctantly. “However, as soon as they are available, we will be showing you the first pictures of something that has been described as the most significant event in history since our ancestors left Kobol and moved to the Twelve Colonies across the Great Void in space.”

He was good, Serina admitted sourly. She hadn’t planned letting a politician with advanced rhetoric training to steal her show, but she couldn’t make a Council member – and an aristocrat at that – shut up and clean the scene.

She was still desperately trying to find a way to interrupt him without making him a lifelong enemy when the sound of some distant rumbling – not unlike that of an explosion – caught her attention. At first she thought it would be some unannounced military demonstration, a parade flight in tight formation perhaps, as part of the celebratory performances, and made a mental notice to protest by the commander of the Caprican Flight Academy at the first chance. How did they _dare_ to disturb the broadcast of the century?

But when the rumbling was followed by the much closer, ear-splitting noise of shattering glass, she realized that something was very wrong. Taking a quick glance around herself, she saw glass door and window panels all around the Capitolium break simultaneously, sending glass shards flying everywhere. She was getting a really bad feeling about all this… it reminded her of old records of planetary targets being bombed.

“Are we under attack?” she asked _Sire_ Antipas, switching off her microphone so that the question would not go out into the air. “But by whom?”

“Perhaps some sabotage from dissidents?” the young politician suggested vaguely. He was chalk white and his hands trembled.

“Are there such a thing as dissidents on Caprica?” Serina asked doubtfully. “And where did that explosion come from? Because it _did_ sound like some kind of explosion to me.”

“Behind you!” Morel, her cameraman, called out. “On the left!”

She turned around and looked that way. The people gathered near her followed suit, looking back toward the charred and smoking area where the explosion – because it _had_ to be an explosion – had occurred. A few of the notorious onlookers hurried past her, towards the explosion site. Clearly, they were fracking idiots.

On the other hand, this was _news_ , and she was the first one at the scene – no newswoman would ever let such an opportunity slip through her fingers. She beckoned towards her cameraman and soundwoman and switched her microphone back on, while still addressing the camera.

“Excuse me,” she said. “It seems to me that something unexpected has happened. C’mon, Morel, Prina, let’s see what it is. Excuse me, sir, madam, could you let us by, please?” 

She shouldered her way through a group of stunned onlookers. “We cannot tell yet what it is, but it sounded like some kind of explosion. Listen to the crackle of glass underfoot. You picking that up, Prina? Yes? Fine. I really don’t know what… wait, perhaps _Sire_ Antipas could tell us what… no, I guess he isn’t telling us anything else today,” she corrected herself with thinly-veiled irony, seeing that the young aristocrat was still white and trembling with shock.

“Wait a minute, let’s see if we can find a better vantage point… excuse me, pardon me…”

Elbowing her way through the forming crowd, while maintaining continual check to see if her crew was following her, Serina forced her way to an open spot, as close to the explosion site as she dared. Morel quickly set up the camera and nodded to her to begin.

“I still haven’t figured out what…” she interrupted herself as she spotted a blinding light, just above her cameraman’s right shoulder. “Oh, no! Morel, get that on camera, quick!”

Obediently, Morel pointed the camera where she directed: at the horizon beyond the city, where a huge, brilliant fireball was rising like a small nova. It was followed by another one, just as huge and every bit as bright.

“A tremendous explosion...” Serina looked at her soundwoman to make sure it had been recorded and waited for the aftershock rumble to fade, so that she could resume her commentary. “Are we getting this on the camera...? That’s two explosions, actually. You saw them with your own eyes. People are beginning to panic, running everywhere and they... are running in all different directions. Ladies and gentlemen... It's terrible, truly terrible! They're bombing the city...”

She hoped her voice was not giving away the fact that she found it exciting, too. This was what she’d always dreamed of, all her life: to report in from the front line itself. She’d just never expected the front line to come this close to home.

“Nobody seems to know,” she began again, but was interrupted by the flat, silvery disk of a Cylon raider streaking across the sky, shooting twin bursts from his overboard laser turrets into the panicking crowd. Around her, people started to fall.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she all but screamed into her microphone to remain audible over all that loud background noise, “I don’t know how and why, but we’re definitely under attack. It’s real! The war has come to our very doorsteps. It’s not just a disaster, it’s…”

The thunderous roar of an exploding pyramid on the left caught off the rest of her sentence. Farther away, a monolithic building started to fall forward, breaking away from its foundation, showering stone splitters onto the running people. The whole huge, open place, the heart of Caprica City, began to rock, and Serina was thrown into the bushes, followed – rather involuntarily – by Morel, who was still steadily aiming the camera her way.

“Not at me, Morel!” she hissed angrily. Sagan, but one really needed to spell out every little detail for these dumb technicians. “Show them the explosions, the fire!” She switched her microphone back on again. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s terrible… Someone’s attacking Caprica City. It looks like Cylon raiders, but I don’t understand…”

A trio of raiders swung low over the city, spouting laser fire of all their guns, making her duck into the bushes. One of the raiders was firing right in her direction. A small boy of perhaps six _yahrens_ ran by her, chasing a scruffy little daggit, followed by a young woman – presumably his mother – who was screaming the child’s name desperately, but the boy didn’t hear it in all that battle noise. He was lucky enough to get away unharmed, at least for the time being, but the woman was hit by the laser fire and plunged to the ground.

Getting back to her feet, Serina instinctively moved to the woman’s aid, but one look at her bloodied face made it clear that there wasn’t any hope left.

“She’s dead,” Serina realized. “She’s…” the woman couldn’t be older than her, and the sight made her forget all the excitement about the broadcast and the danger they all were in very real. “Morel, Prina, we better get under cover before…”

She was interrupted by literal masses of hysterical people running by, jostling her, almost trampling her to the ground, and she had to fight very hard to keep her own increasing panic under control. This was not the first time she’d find himself in the middle of a Cylon attack – she’d been there on that agrostation where her mother had been killed – but having it here, in the heart of the Twelve Worlds, was infinitely more frightening.

There were more explosions all around her, more screams, and more raiders firing at the defenseless people. The sheer number of the attack vessels – they reminded her of a spectacular but deadly starfall – made it clear that this wasn’t just a mere attack. This was a synchronized move of the Cylons against the central worlds, while the Fleet was away, to end the thousand _yahren_ war once and forever.

Morel kept the pointing the camera at her, not knowing anything else to do, but Serina waved him away.

“It’s hopeless,” she said. “People are dying all around us – I don’t even know whether we’re still on the air. The best thing would be to get ourselves to safety, if we can. Hey, have you seen that small child with the daggit running by just… Look out! Look out!”

She screamed as another low-flying raider released a new volley of laser fire and Morel was hit along with his camera. Sparks flew from the exploding camera; Morel fell to the ground, his face charred beyond recognition. Prina fled in absolute terror, her soundboard trampled under dozens, perhaps hundreds of running feet, only to be trampled down herself _microns_ later. The panicking crowd didn’t even realize when she got underfoot. The chaos and confusion was complete.

Serina understood that her only chance would be to keep a level head. Fortunately, she wasn’t one who panicked easily, and with the same single-minded determination with which she’d worked on her career she now began to look for a way out of this Hades. She was _not_ giving the cursed Cylons the satisfaction of getting killed on the very day that was supposed to be her major breakthrough. If nothing else, she’d at the very least survive, no matter what.

She threw her microphone away and ran towards the Presidium building, which, she knew had a deep basement with a very sound foundation. It had been built to provide government officials with shelter in case of just such an attack, after all. There she’d be safe until the bombing was over.

She was almost there when she spotted the child she’d seen chasing a daggit, just _microns_ earlier. Driven by instinct rather than by conscious thought, she grabbed the arm of the boy as another swooping attack fighter zeroed directly on then, its laser cannons at full blast. Diving out of the way of the burning laser path that scorched deep marks into the pavement, Serina dragged the child with her before it could have reached them. Hugging the trembling boy tightly, she watched an entire wave of Cylon raiders scream by, their weapons cutting down indiscriminately everything and everyone in their way.

This wasn’t a mere attack any longer. It was a massacre, with the simple goal to kill as many people in as short a time as possible. Serina pushed the boy’s face into her shoulder to spare him the sight.

A marble pillar was hit and crashed onto the pavement just a few feet away, splitting into heavy blocks and hitting several people, while raining marble splitters onto the others. Yells of pain and fear filled the smoky ear, and Serina frantically tried to bring herself and the child out of harm’s way, when something hit her and she was buried in the rubble as well. She could not breathe; she couldn’t see a thing, and all she could feel was the pliant, perhaps dead body of the child lying upon her.

Only one of her arms was still free, but at least she could move it. So she began digging towards the surface, holding her breath, as she knew it would only fill her lungs with dust, leading to her instant death. With burning lungs, she scratched a hole in the dirt, so that she could free her face, if nothing else. After taking a deep breath from the smoke-filled air above, she began coughing at once. That cleared her mind a little… just enough to crawl out of the hole and pull the child free, too. Checking him over, she was relieved to see that he was all right… just dirty and scared to death.

“M…mommy,” he stuttered and began to cry.

Serina instinctively pulled him closer, trying to comfort him. She was not a sentimental woman, by any means, but this child reminded her so much of her little Maboc, whom she’d lost to a sudden fever just half a _yahren_ before, that she couldn’t resist.

“It’s all right,” she murmured soothingly. “Everything’s going to be all right, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Mommy’s here now.”

But the boy didn’t listen to her. His mind was preoccupied with other concerns.

“Muffit!” he cried. “Where’s Muffit?”

“Who?” Serina asked, slightly taken aback.

“My daggit,” the tears began running down the boy’s dirty face in earnest now. “Where’s he? He’s run away from me…”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s fine,” Serina said convincingly, glad that the child was concentrating on the whereabouts of his lost pet rather than realizing that the young woman who must have been his mother was already dead.

Of course, he was probably in shock. After all, he didn’t even seem to realize that Serina was _not_ his mother.

Serina stood and looked around. There were no more Cylon fighters flying across the sky at the moment, but the dust and smoke from their recent attack was still settling around them. It was hard to breathe… or to see anything but vague shadows in that dark mist.

“Muffit! Muffit!” the boy sobbed.

“I’m sure he’s fine, sweetheart,” Serina repeated, trying to sound as if she’d believe it. She was a newswoman, after all. Making people believe her was what she did for a living.

What she’d _used_ to do, that is. No-one could tell what the future would bring… _if_ there would be a future at all.

A tall man in scorched and bloodied clothes came out of the mist, his bleeding left arm hanging limp and useless at his side, his face covered in dirt and sweat, dark hair plastered to his forehead. It was _Sire_ Antipas, looking fairly competent for a change.

“Move, everyone!” he shouted. “Move! Evacuate the Capitolium!”

Serina was impressed, she couldn’t help it. For a politician, and for one who’d never faced any danger in his young life, he showed amazing backbone, staying there and helping with the evacuation. Few of his fellow councillors would have done the same, of that she was certain. She knew them all well enough.

Antipas spotted him now and his eyes widened. “Serina! What are you still doing here?”

“I’ve tried to get into the basement of the Presidium,” she explained.

“Forget it,” he said. “The building has suffered several hits; it may come down any _micron_ now. Move! You can’t stay here, it’s not safe.”

“My daggit!” the boy was still sobbing. “Where is…”

“We can’t waste time with this now!” Antipas shouted impatiently. Which was, of course, the worst possible thing he could have said, and only resulted in the boy bawling even louder.

“Leave him to me,” Serina said, shooting him a baleful look; then she bent down and kissed the boy’s face. “Come on, sweetheart, we’ve got to go. I’m sure your daggit is all right. Daggits are clever; he’ll find a way out of here.”

“Please, Serina!” Antipas screamed desperately. “The building here will collapse any _micron_ now! We must go!”

Serina looked in the direction towards which the man’s still functioning arm waved and saw that he was absolutely right. They needed to leave here, and they needed to leave _now_. Thinking feverishly, she finally got an idea that _might_ work. Pointing in the direction away from the about-to-collapse building, she cried out in false excitement.

“There he is, that must’ve been him, running that way. Let’s go and look out for him!”

The boy looked up at her, teary-eyed. “I want Muffit! Is he all right?”

Serina picked him up and suppressed a sigh. This didn’t work as it was supposed to.

“Sure, he’s all right,” she said soothingly. “Everything is all right. Mommy’s here now, sweetheart, everything’s going to be just fine. Just fine.”

 _Sire_ Antipas looked at them with a suspicious frown.

“Is he yours?” he asked doubtfully.

Serina wiped some of the dust from the boy’s face. He was a sweet-faced child, with large brown eyes and silky brown hair, the bangs of which were hanging in his eyes. Had her little Maboc lived to reach the age of six, he might have looked very much like this boy.

“Yes,” she lied softly. “Yes, he’s mine.”

“A lively child,” _Sire_ Antipas looked at the boy. “What’s your name, kid?”

The boy glanced back at him, still frightened, but also curious now.

“B… boxey,” he whispered.

“Actually, his name is Maboc,” Serina intervened smoothly. “We just call him Boxey, because he can be so stubborn sometimes…”

“I can believe _that_ ,” Antipas replied dryly. “How old is he anyway?”

Serina hesitated for a moment. Her little Maboc would only be five, but the boy clearly looked older. She didn’t dare to declare him younger.

“Six,” she said. “He’s almost six,” she added, a little defensively. “Quite big for his age, though.”

More explosions rocked the buildings that were still standing. _Sire_ Antipas realized that this was _not_ the right time to investigate Serina’s family status. He pulled at her with his good arm and, still carrying the child, Serina began to run. She did not look back at the sound of the crashing building behind them.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
 _Sire_ Antipas led them to one of the emergency shelters outside the city centre, where once the elegant mansions of the local nobility had stood – townhouses, mostly, to house the patrician families when they left their estates to spend time in the capital, indulging themselves in political power plays. It seemed logical that there would be safe places for those powerful and influential people to go, in case of an attack.

On their way there, Serina could see that not much of the city had remained. The once smoothly paved streets were now torn open by deep, scorched twin rows cut by the Cylon laser cannons. The few buildings that were still standing also bore scorch marks. Most of them were burning, too, the window planes broken, glass shards covering the streets several _centimetrons_ thick and crashing under her feet. All the greenery of the public parks had been burned down, the water of the fountains and ponds evaporated by the heat of the laser weapons. Dead bodies littered the streets left and right.

Caprica City was thoroughly and utterly destroyed. Even if the Cylons did not return, the city would remain uninhabitable for a long time yet.

She was called before the custodian of the shelter to be registered. Only those with a registration number could hope to get limited rations of the food and water stored there for just such emergencies. She had the child registered, too, naming him as Maboc, her son and that of Boreas, giving a birth date a _yahren_ earlier than Maboc’s had been. She’d find a way to correct that small anomaly later. She was a newswoman, she knew her way around computers.

Had she revealed that the boy wasn’t her son, just some nameless orphan of unknown heritage, Boxey would never have a chance to survive. Not even such a minor celebrity as herself would have, hadn’t it been _Sire_ Antipas who’d taken her with him. Such shelters were usually reserved for the nobility and their household. But beauty and previous contacts proved useful sometimes.

The custodian registered them as the dependants of _Sire_ Antipas, which did make her a little uncomfortable, as it could mean a number of things, from being simply employed by him to being his _maitresse_. But right now, she could not be choosy. Antipas might demand certain… _favours_ from her later, but that was a price she’d be willing to pay. There was no-one else she could turn to for help, and she was also responsible for the child now.

“What are we doing now?” she asked _Sire_ Antipas as they were settling in. “We can’t stay here forever.”

“We don’t have to,” the young councillor replied. “We’ve sent the Fleet a distress call. They’ll come and save us soon enough.”

That piece of information did give Serina a little hope. The Colonial Fleet had fought the Cylons for a thousand _yahrens_ and despite some defeats – like the Battle of Molocai – they always managed to beat the attacks of the homicidal machines back. They would come to rescue them this time, too.


	4. Chapter 2 - Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Glen A. Larson’s novelization to the pilot episode, Boxey wasn’t originally supposed to be Serina’s own child. Serina was at first called Lyra – a name I gave her mother in this story – and meant to be older and politically more active than she turned out in the actual pilot. I kept some of these traits, in order to make her more than just a pretty face Apollo could fall for… and also a much more ambivalent character than in canon.
> 
> Also, we don’t know how long it took for the _Galactica_ to reach Caprica after leaving the Fleet. I just assumed for reality’s sake that it would take at least two weeks or so. Time enough for the planet to turn into a post-apocalyptic wasteland. The various ship classes mentioned in this chapter are from the BSG Technical Manual website.

**CHAPTER 02 – ESCAPE**

But the Fleet did _not_ come in the next _sectare_ , or in the _sectare_ after that. In fact, there never came a reply to the distress call, and people in the shelter were becoming more and more desperate. Some of them had been injured during the Cylon attack; others were getting ill due to the polluted air and malnutrition. The shelter had been built for half as many people as there were crowded in right now, and resources were beginning to run out.

“We have to do something,” Serina said to _Sire_ Antipas, whose small private room she was sharing. Including his bed. There _was_ a price for taking her and her supposed child in, after all – not that she’d mind much. He was not a demanding patron – mostly, he just wanted some human warmth.

“And _what_?” Antipas asked listlessly. His injured arm had got infected, and as they had no medic with them and were running low on medication, too, there was a real danger that he’d lose it… unless he died from blood poisoning first.

“I don’t know!” Serina replied in frustration. “Something. _Anything_. There must be medicine depots and food storehouses in the city. You’re a councillor; you can get into the databases of the City Council easily and find out _where_ they are!”

“The computer network’s collapsed,” Antipas reminded her. “And even if I could locate the storages, how would we get there and back with food and medicine unharmed? You’ve heard those who’d dare to scout out the neighbourhood: there are pillaging mobs all over the city. Whom would you trust? Me? Or yourself? I’m a crippled man who can barely take care of himself, and you… do you truly believe that you as a woman, and such a tempting one at that, would have a chance against the pillaging bands? Have you any idea what they’d do with you?”

“They’d use me to their pleasure, just as you’re doing,” Serina replied coolly. “I’m not stupid, _Sire_ Antipas. I’m well aware of the risks. But I also know that if we don’t find food and medicine soon, people will start dying within days – either from starvation or from their wounds and illnesses. We can’t hold out another _sectare_ here; not without restocking our resources.”

“Fine,” Antipas shrugged, returning to his comm unit to keep trying to make contact with someone – _anyone_ – from the Fleet who might be listening. “Be a fool. Go; look for food and medicine, if you can find other fools who’re willing to go with you. _I’m_ not going.”

Serina wasn’t even listening to him anymore. During her stay in the shelter she’d come to know most of her fellow refugees, so she knew well enough who’d be willing to go with her. The majority of them had belonged to the one or other patrician household as servants, guard, grooms, cooks, gardeners… whatever. They were more practical-minded than their masters and not willing to give up just yet.

She went straight to the cubicle shared by Bengun, a middle-aged Taurean agrist, and his two wives. Bengun had worked in the hothouses of the city for the last ten _yahrens_ or so, but in his youth he’d served as an infantry sergeant, until suffering a serious leg wound that got him sorted out of service. He still considered himself as a veteran, though, and his son, Kreon, served aboard one of the Battlestars – Serina couldn’t remember which one – as a computer specialist.

“Bengun, we need to go out and find some food, medicine and other things,” she told him without preamble. “I know it can be dangerous, but we have no other choice. We have almost no resources left – either we take the risk or we’ll all die.”

The hard-faced man, whose rustic dialect concealed a remarkably shrewd mind, nodded in agreement.

“We’ve already talked about it, me and some of the others,” he said. “We just ain’t sure where to go.”

“Well, we’re on the outskirts of what used to be the quarter for the patrician townhouses,” Serina said. “They ought to have ample resources.”

“Yeah, but those have already been plundered, methinks,” Lea, Bengun’s senior wife said pessimistically. A _troika_ , a traditional threesome Taurean marriage unit, either consisted of a husband and two wives, or a wife and two husbands. Theirs was the one-man-two-women sort.

“Some of them probably have,” Serina agreed, “but not all of them. There used to be dozens of mansions, with extensive outbuildings, and only two _sectares_ since the Destruction. They couldn’t have pillaged all of them – not yet. Besides, what do we have to lose?”

“Our lives, if we run into the mob,” Twilly, the junior wife, said darkly. 

Serina shrugged. “Our lives will be over – and more certainly so – if we just sit here and wait for the food to run out,” she pointed out logically.

“She’s right,” Bengun said. “We’d have to do it sooner or later anyway. It’s better we do it now, while we’re still strong enough to defend ourselves against the pillaging bands. Better than starving slowly, at least in my books.”

“Can you find a dozen or so people to come with us?” Serina asked.

Bengun nodded with easy confidence. People knew he was an ex-soldier and trusted him to know what to do – more than they’d trust their clearly frightened masters.

“That and more, if I have to,” he said. “You sure you wanna come with us?”

“Yes,” Serina said firmly. “I need to see with my own eyes what’s out there… and if we find a working computer network or a comm station somewhere, I might be able to find more resources… or even help from the outside.”

“Very well,” Bengun said. “Meet us in a _centare_ at the security entrance. I’ll have enough men to come with us.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As promised, less than a _centare_ later Bengun had a group of twenty people ready to go. Mostly men, but also a handful of determined women, young and older alike, who refused to be left behind to wait for the inevitable quietly. Bengun’s wives were not among them, but they’d offered to take Boxey as long as Serina was gone. Their own children were already grown – or dead, in Twilly’s case – so they were more than happy to have a young child to pamper again… as far as pampering would be possible under the circumstances.

The group armed themselves as well as they could. The shelter’s limited security forces refused to hand over their blasters to a ragtag band of civilians, and none of them owned a pistol of his or her own, but the ruins lying all around them offered heavy iron bars and the likes, broken free from the collapsed buildings. They even managed to fabricate some torches, from broken logs and spilt industrial oil, used in better times to keep machine parts running smoothly. There were mechanics among them who knew what to look for – even though, sadly, none of what they found proved edible.

Serina was asked to show them the way, as she – due to her _yahrens_ as _Sire_ Patroclus’ _maitresse_ – had known this neighbourhood reasonably well. She’d never been invited to any of these houses, of course. They belonged to the oldest, most influential patrician families of Caprica – but she knew whose they had been, and she was familiar with the general layout of such mansions.

There _was_ a bitter irony in the fact that she’d now help rob the very houses in which she’d never been welcome, due to her scandalous origins and because her mother had been cast out of these circles. Had she not been so desperate, she might have appreciated the irony.

The ruined houses stood on low, gentle hills, each a small world of its own, surrounded by lush, green gardens and high stone walls, to protect the inhabitants’ privacy. Or so it had been once, not so long ago. Right now, the scorched line of a hideous battle scar ran in a deep rut across the entire area, as if the land had been ploughed by some enormous, white-hot piece of ploughing iron. The line seemed to go off infinitely, or at least to the base of a row of fires that raged at the edge of the crumbling city.

It seemed unbelievable that after two _sectares_ , the city would still be burning. Yet, if the smoking ruins were any indication, some parts of it must still have been ablaze.

Heading towards the nearest hill, with an ancient, beautifully-built mansion upon it, they could see that the house, too, was sliced down in the middle by the straight-line scar of battle. On one side of the line much of the dwelling still stood, but the other half was nothing but charred rubble.

“I know this house,” Serina murmured. “It used to belong to _Sire_ Adama… the commanding officer of the Battlestar _Galactica_.”

“Yeah,” Bengun replied grimly, “and it seems someone managed to get back, after all… even though apparently too late.”

Following his gaze, Serina’s heart jumped to her throat at once. Near the damaged house, the sleek, pointy-nosed outline of a Viper could be seen among the dust and the smoke, like that of a silver-scaled fish in muddy water. A Viper has landed on Caprica! Then the rest of the Fleet couldn’t be far, either.

Without needing an order, the group moved on like one man, surging towards the ruined mansion and that symbol of hope beyond it.

As they were getting close, they could see that the front door hung uncertainly from a single hinge. The scanning device, that would under normal circumstances have stopped their progress, had been reduced to a knobbly lump of debris and dangled by a wire from a jagged hole in the wall. They could get close enough without getting spotted by those who were moving around within the house.

Because there definitely was someone there, walking around aimlessly in the ruined half of the building, looking for survivors perhaps, or merely for some personal memento of a life that had been and would never bee again. And there was another one standing in the doorway: a young man, wearing the beige-and-brown uniform of a Viper pilot.

He was a handsome man, Serina found, about her own age, and with collar-length hair such a dark brown that it almost seemed black as it framed his pale face. Within all this black-and-white, his green eyes seemed surprisingly vivid, perhaps due to the contrast, perhaps on their own; it was hard to tell. His angular cheekbones looked as if they’d been shaped by a skilled diamond cutter, and that made him familiar somehow; she’d definitely seen cheekbones like those before, she just couldn’t remember at the moment where… and the sharpness of his features was even more emphasized by dark, expressive eyebrows and a strong mouth.

The whole face was very youthful, surprisingly so, given the rank pins of a captain adorning the stand-up collar of his brown flight jacket – until one saw his eyes. Because those eyes looked like they’d seen a lot. This man had definitely earned his rank the hard way.

“Look, we should move on,” he was saying, just as Serina and the others reached the house… or what was left of it. “There are crowds coming. They probably saw our ship land.”

So, they hadn’t reached the estate quite as unnoticed as they’d thought. Of course, a warrior was trained to notice any potential danger approaching, and Serina couldn’t quite deny that their group _might_ prove dangerous.

An elderly, grief-sickened, yet still powerful voice answered from within. “I’m not worried about them. I’ll be a few more _centons_ here, if you don’t mind.”

Clearly, the decision was against the young warrior’s better judgement, but he didn’t argue, just nodded stiffly and started to leave. In the last _micron_ , though, he turned back in the doorway, saying:

“Maybe she wasn’t here. Maybe…”

“She _was_ here,” the older voice said with finality. “She was here.”

Serina could feel the anger within her group rise steadily all around her. The others, too, have spotted the landed Viper and its pilot, and suddenly the whole crowd surged on towards the little ship. Serina prayed that they wouldn’t do anything stupid – they needed the help of the military to get away from here – but she couldn’t be sure. Desperate people could become violent without a sound reason sometimes. She’d seen it often enough while visiting the outer colonies with her mother.

Fortunately, Bengun seemed capable of controlling his people… for the time being anyway. He made them stop some fifty _metrons_ from the ship, and while everyone was growling and muttering, they behaved themselves for now.

The young pilot walked forward to meet them. He was clearly someone used to deal with obnoxious crowds – he had an air of command about him. He glared at them unblinkingly, perhaps trying to gauge the depth of their enmity and the potential danger they might represent for him and for the older man within the house.

“Yes, can I do something for you?” he asked icily. It was a tone that probably made undisciplined warriors shake in their boots with terror.

Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t dealing with a group of his errant pilots here. Bengun was about to answer him, but one of the men cut into his word.

“Where are they, the rest of your fancy pilots?” he demanded, shaking his fist.

Another man, pushing forward from behind the speaker, shouted. “Where were you when they were killing everyone? What were you doing?”

As Serina had feared, hostility within the group was rising with alarming speed. A few men and one of the women – a dishevelled old hag who’d lost her whole family in the bombing, Serina remembered – separated from the majority of the group and edged towards the young warrior. They seemed angry enough to tear him – to tear _anyone_ they could lay hand on – apart and spread the pieces from here to the still burning city, just to find an outlet for their pent-up fear, grief and frustration.

Something needed to be done, and it needed to be done _now_ , because otherwise something really ugly – not to mention irreversible – was going to happen.

“Wait!” Serina called out, running to Bengun who was still standing at the front of the crowd. The front ranks parted for her. People had already grown used to listen to her. “Let him talk!” she added and walked up until she could almost touch the young captain.

‘Before they jump at your throat,” she enunciated precisely, with the well-trained theatrical projection of a newswoman interviewing some important person, “I’d like to know a few things. Where you were. For that matter, where was everybody, the entire military force?” for better effect, she allowed her eyes to fill with tears, without actually shedding any. It was a very useful tool when dealing with men. “Where were all of you?” she repeated. “Even after the battle had begun, we prayed for relief, but you never came.”

His eyes were fixed on her dishevelled figure, his look cool and suspicious. She was playing him, and he knew it. He also seemed to realize that she could be a real danger for him. Military personnel were trained in tactics to handle the mob; but an intelligent person could combat such tactics easily. Fortunately for him, she didn’t want him to get killed, and he apparently understood that.

“Most of us are dead,” he answered matter-of-factly. _That_ quieted the crowd for the moment. “We were ambushed. There _is_ no more Fleet.”

There was a collective gasp from the group; then one of the women started crying, quietly, barely audible above the confused murmurs of the men. Serina felt numb. Absolutely numb. This could not have happened. It simply couldn’t. It was beyond her worst fears. Beyond her wildest imagination.

“But…” she was trying to get a hold on the possible ramifications – and failed. “But how... I mean _you_ are here. Where did you come, then?”

“From the Battlestar _Galactica_ ,” the pilot answered.

Serina felt new hope stir in her heart. “The _Galactica_? She survived?”

“Yes…” at first, it seemed as if the warrior wanted to add something, but then he changed his mind and fell silent.

“What of President Adar?” Serina demanded. “What about the _Quorum of Twelve_?”

“And the other colonies?” Bengun added, worried about his own homeworld. “Surely we can fight back!”

The warrior didn’t answer, just shook his head in defeat.

“That’s impossible!” Serina said. “We’re united, all Twelve Colonies, after hundreds of _yahrens_ of the Separation. Our combined strength, it can’t possibly be defeated… Wasn’t this what we were all taught, what we all learned from the cradle?”

“Our unity, our strength came about too late,” an elderly voice answered, and a tall, silver-haired man with his back slightly bent under the weight of high age came forth from behind the wing of the landed Viper.

Although he was wearing a somewhat battered uniform in command blue, he had a marked likeness to the young pilot: the same angular cheekbones and strong mouth; and the same cold, penetrating eyes that could have frightened an entire battle group of rowdy pilots into obedience within _microns_. Only that the old man’s eyes were dark brown to the young captain’s vivid green ones. Serina glanced at the rank pins on the collar of the midnight blue tunic and recognition dawned on her.

“Commander Adama,” she said with a respectful bow.

She wasn’t certain he’d recognize her. Most aristocrats hadn’t after her mother’s death, even if she’d visited their homes before. As if she’d become empty air for them without Lyra’s presence. But the patriarch of the Adamans (called so after a similarly-named ancestor) was clearly cut from different wood.

“Serina,” he said simply. “We’ve received your transmission aboard the _Galactica_ … what terrible tidings to share! I thank the Lords of Kobol that you’ve made it out of the attack.”

His words were gentle, but his voice full of sorrow and nearly broken. His mere presence, though, spoke more than any words could have spoken. It brought home to Serina – and to the others who’d come with her – the true impact and extent of their defeat.

“It’s true then?” Serina asked, and the tears filling her eyes were spontaneous and honest this time, full of despair. “Have they beaten us for good? Are we doomed?”

“It seems so, doesn’t it?” Bengun murmured. “Hard to believe, though, ain’t it? A thousand _yahrens_ the war had gone on… we were so used to it that we all expected it to go on forever. But now… now it’s over, right? We can’t fight no more, can we?”

“We _have_ to!” Serina insisted desperately. “Commander,” she turned to Adama, “we’re going to _have_ to keep fighting! We can’t… we can’t simply give up!”

Adama walked slowly up the hill and turned his attention towards the still burning city. His look was stern, magisterial… but he seemed to look past them, past everything and everyone present, right into the future. A future only he could see yet.

“We’re not giving up; we’ll _never_ give up,” he finally said. “But we can’t fight any more; not here, not now. Not in the Colonies, not even in this star system. The Colonies have fallen; every single planet is in flames. We need to find a new path to follow.”

“What are you speaking of, sir?” Bengun asked in confusion.

The old man gave him a compassionate look, as if he were about to ask him – to ask them all – something very hard and painful to do.

“We must gather together as many survivors as we can, from each of the Twelve Worlds,” he said. “We must get word to them to board any vehicle that’ll carry them, no matter what its state.” He turned that far-away look of his to Bengun and the rest of the group. “The possibility of a defeat of such magnitude was already taken into consideration by the leaders of old. There have always been evacuation plans for each colony… although we never believed that we might have to evacuate all of them at once.”

“And therein lies the problem,” the young warrior pointed out soberly. “There isn’t time, not enough time to arrange provisions. I’m certain that the Cylons will be sending landing parties to eradicate the survivors, and that soon. What we should do… I mean if we _could_ just send in our remaining fighters…”

“No,” the old commander interrupted. “Too many of them, too few of us. There _will_ be a time of fight, but not now. Our first priority should be to get as many people off-world as we can, before the Cylon clean-up forces arrive.”

“But… but there’s no way to put up the entire population on the _Galactica_ , and we have no troop carriers any more,” the young captain protested.

“We have agroships, mining ships, electronic ships, foundry ships – some of them were built for industrial production in space and can house hundreds of persons if necessary,” Commander Adama reminded him.

“Whose potential for conversion to hyperspace capability is marginal at best,” retorted the young pilot. “Are you truly hoping to outrun the Cylons with such a ragtag fleet, Father?”

 _Father_? Serina repeated mentally. So, this battle-hardened young warrior was one of Adama’s sons, then. Apollo, most likely; his firstborn. The other one was said to have just graduated from the Flight Academy… and didn’t he have a daughter in Fleet service, too?

“You’re thinking logically,” Adama said to his son, and his face was soft and strangely vulnerable at this moment. “But this isn’t the time for logical thinking. We’ll use what we still _do_ have. Every inter-colony passenger liner, freighter, tanker… anything that can carry our people into the stars.”

“And when they’ve gathered in the stars?” Serina asked softly. “What then?”

“We’ll lead them,” Adama replied simply. “And protect them until they’re strong enough.”

The old man’s eyes glowed with powerful confidence, and for a moment Serina wondered whether she was listening to some charismatic leader, capable of leading his followers through fire unharmed… or to someone who’d already gone mad with grief over his tragic losses. From the confused looks Bengun and his people were exchanging, they clearly weren’t sure, either.

But it didn’t really matter. They had at least to try something – _anything_. Sitting on their burning planets, waiting for the Cylons to wipe out what was left of mankind simply wasn’t an option.

Bengun was the first to ask the question they were all wondering about.

“How should we send word to anyone?” he asked. “The planetary networks have collapsed, and the inter-colonial ones haven’t worked since before the first attack. Nothing works anymore.”

“There are ways known only to the highest ranks of the military and the _Quorum of Twelve_ ,” Adama replied. “Emergency networks hidden deep underground; relay stations camouflaged on seemingly deserted moons and asteroids. Even if everything else has collapsed, _those_ will work.”

“In that case we should hurry up, Father,” Captain Apollo said. “You’re the last surviving member of the _Quorum_ , and the commander of the only surviving Battlestar. Should anything happen to you, all those precautions would have been for nothing.”

The old man sighed. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “There’s nothing left for me here anyway. Like everyone else, I, too, must turn my back to the past and look towards the future,” he glanced around. “Return to your hideouts,” he said to the gathered crowd. “Spread the word to others to get to a rallying point and salvage every ship with sufficient thrust to reach the coordinates you’ll be given.”

“Won’t there be Cylon patrols?” Bengun asked doubtfully.

“Of course there will,” Adama replied. “They’ll be scouring the ground and weaving webs in the sky sooner than you’d think. You’ll have to sneak around, above and beneath them to reach our designated assembling point.”

“Which would be… where exactly?” Bengun asked.

“Let that be the concern of the pilots,” Adama said. “It’s been the best-kept secret of the military for the last two hundred _yahrens_ or so. A coded message will be sent to every colonial ship as soon as they’ve left the atmosphere of a planet… or rather a series of coded messages, so that they wouldn’t unknowingly lead the Cylons to the rest of us.”

“And the pilots would know what to do?” Bengun asked doubtfully.

The old man gave him a tired half-smile. “They won’t have to. Every colonial craft capable of interplanetary travel has been built to react to such messages for the two hundred _yahrens_. Each message will guide them to the next orientation point only, just in case…”

“Just in case the Cylons would spot them,” Bengun finished grimly. “In which case they’d be simply left behind.”

Adama nodded slowly. “I’m afraid so, yes. It’s either that, or risking sacrificing every single survivor for the sake of a few.”

“A grim choice to make, it is,” Bengun said.

“Which is why I’ll be the one to make it,” Adama replied. “Or, should I be dead or otherwise hindered, Commander Kronus. No-one else of us is left.”

Bengun thought about that for a moment, and then he made an abrupt nod.

“Very well, Commander,” he said. “I for my part am willing to trust you; and will try to persuade others to do the same. But Captain Apollo was right: we must be quick. If I know the tinheads, and I served as an infantry sergeant long enough to know them, they’ll be all over us in no time.”

“Unfortunately, that’s very true,” Adama said with a sigh. “Go and speak to the people, then. Captain Apollo will take me to the secret headquarters, from where I can activate the emergency network without any further delay.”

“Unless that, too, has been bombed to Hades,” Bengun said pessimistically.

Adama shook his head. “Unlikely. It’s well-hidden in an area where’s nothing to catch the Cylons' interests; and it’s well-protected, too. It _will_ work, and people will be given the location of the rallying points as soon as I get there. All you have to do is to spread the word and prepare them for departure.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Bengun promised, although he seemed to think it wouldn’t be just that simple.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Within two _centares_ , the emergency network came online indeed, and word went out over all the secret channels, established for exactly such system-wide emergencies two hundred _yahrens_ previous. The evacuation point coordinates appeared on the screens of every household, and people set off to go to their pre-assigned gathering points with renewed hope, desperate to find a means to leave their home planets and get onto one of the great ships waiting for them.

These huge carriers – mostly Gemini freighters or crafts of the _Colonial Movers_ , but also agroships that had been built to provide generation ships on their way to new colonies with food, mining ships looking for Tylium deposits and other valuable ores for the industry of the colonies, foundry ships designed to mine and process ores, but also luxury liners that could be found and confiscated for the rescue of the survivors – could take in a great many people or huge amounts of provisions, or some of both. 

They had taken up stationary positions under the protection of hastily established camouflage energy fields that made them invisible to the many Cylon search patrols that passed near them, within the asteroid field on the border of their star system. From there on, they would go to the final assembling point, far away, deep in interstellar space. But getting there in the first place proved hard enough. Military shuttlecrafts, civilian space shuttles, small freighters, landrams, sorted-out, old-fashioned freighters that flew on one wing, even intracolony air busses and rental shuttlepods were used for the desperate task of getting people off the planets and onto the great ships.

Yet even so, there weren’t enough vehicles by far to evacuate all the survivors who’d do anything to get off, knowing that being left behind was a death sentence, executed sooner or later but without doubt by the Cylon patrols. Getting onto one of the evacuation shuttles wasn’t an easy task, particularly not for such a minor celebrity as Serina… especially not with a small child. She might be as ruthless and determined as she wanted – and she wasn’t very shy in her efforts – but she simply didn’t have the physical strength to push herself – _and_ Boxey – through the desperate crowd.

Several times they had to retreat, lest they wanted to be trampled to death by the masses. Boxey began to cry after his daggit again, making people around them even more irritated and annoyed with his presence. Serina, although not one to give up easily, was getting worried that – unless she’d find help, soon – they’d be left behind to die here, among the smouldering ruins of what once used to be the capital of the Twelve Words.

And help wasn’t easily found here. They’d gotten separated from Bengun and his family right at the beginning of the evacuation, and she hadn’t seen _Sire_ Antipas since they’d left the shelter, either. Not that there would be any guarantees that he could – or even wanted – to help them. Yes, he had been generous so far, but he was every bit as concerned with his own survival as everyone else.

Serina was just about to start panicking in earnest when she spotted a familiar, tall, dark-haired figure, wearing the customary white tunic and breeches of a doctor, coming out of a nearby collapsed building that once used to be a small hospital. That long, pale, chiselled face, those dark Aquarian eyes… Patroclus!

“Doctor Paye!” she called out, as Patroclus, like all aristocrats in public service, didn’t use his true name outside the social circle of his fellow nobles; only the Admanas did so. “Doctor Paye, over here!”

Patroclus looked around, spotted her and hurried over to her. He looked tired and sleep-deprived but otherwise unhurt.

“Serina,” he said, clearly delighted to see her alive and relatively well. He must have helped with the evacuation, because his face and his medical garb were smudged with soot, blood and dust. “I’m glad to see you’ve survived. And who’s this?” he asked, looking at Boxey with interest.

“My son,” Serina lied. “Boreas, his father, died during the attack, or so I believe; I couldn’t find him. So we ran.”

She knew she couldn’t fool Patroclus, who was well aware of the actual age of her little Maboc, but there were people carrying boxes out of the now ruined hospital into a civilian space shuttle parked only a few _metrons_ away, who had no business knowing that Boxey wasn’t her son. Since Patroclus made no attempts to unveil the lie, she went on with a little more courage.

“We’ve been trying to get evacuated ever since Commander Adama sent the word, but without a protector…” again, she allowed the tears to fill her eyes. “Please, doctor, can’t you help us? I don’t want to die here, not after we’ve made it this far!”

“It would be a crying shame indeed,” Patroclus admitted. “You deserve better. But I’ve no influence that would get you onto any of the evac shuttles. The military is calling the shots, and private ships have their own priorities… not always ones I would agree with, but I have no authority to tell them to ask differently.”

“Please,” Serina begged, the tears washing twin paths through the dirt covering her face. “I’ll do anything to save my son!” And she meant it. Boxey might not be Maboc, but Maboc was dead, and she would not let the boy the Lords of Kobol had so unexpectedly given her die, as long as she could do anything to save him.

“ _Anything_?” Patroclus repeated with emphasis. “Well, perhaps I can do something for you, after all. I’m here with one of the passenger shuttles of the _Rising Star_ , to secure medical supplies, while the other shuttles are looking for provisions. I _could_ justify taking you with me as my dependant – we used to be a well-known item, so people would remember – but that would mean leaving behind supplies that would be desperately needed later.”

“Please,” Serina begged again. “I’ll make it worth your effort. You know I can!”

“It’s not me you need to persuade,” Patroclus replied. “It’s _Sire_ Uri. But since he used to be your patron, we might give it a try. Come with me… and bring the child, too.”


	5. The "Rising Star"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The various ship classes mentioned in this chapter are from the BSG Technical Manual website, as before.   
> Leonyte-at-the-Sea and the Cathay-Six blaster were invented by Karen. So are the _leporid_ , a small animal akin to a rabbit, and _glassite_ , a sort of unbreakable glass.  
> The _New Art_ is the Colonial version of Art Déco or Art Nouveau.

**CHAPTER 03 – THE _RISING STAR_**

The _Rising Star_ , constructed in the once-famed shipyards of Leonyte-at-the-Sea, the now-gone capital of the planet Leonis, was one of the newest – not to mention the most comfortable – ships that the military could draft into the rescue mission. Not the most practical one, though. For all intents and purposes, she was a luxury liner, chartered to fly romantic tours around all Twelve Colonies… nothing more, nothing less.

Consequently, she was also the most vulnerable ship in the ragtag fleet of Colonial refugees. Meant primarily for short or medium range flight, this class vessel was rather frail and had less advanced scanner equipment than other commercial transports. She was also unarmed, with a hull barely a _metron_ or less thick, and she had no EM-shields, either.

In short, she was a flying rat-trap – albeit a beautiful one, shimmering in pearly white like some enormous seashell before the blackness of space. Her aerodynamic design – commonly known as a “lifting body design” – allowed her to make water landings, where she could drop off or take on new passengers. This was also the reason why her scramjet intakes were featured on top, unlike those of other ships.

Usually not one for minute technical detail, Serina happened to know this, as she’d been the one making the report of the _Rising Star_ ’s shakedown cruise a couple of _yahrens_ ago. She hadn’t thought that her familiarity with the ship – including her layout – would come in so handy one day.

When they landed in the _Rising Star_ 's shuttle bay, however, she could see that this was a very different ship from the one she remembered. The hangar, originally designed to hold twelve civilian space shuttles, was now crowded with at least three or four times as many vehicles of various sorts. Black-clad members of Council Security (and how in Hades had they survived the destruction of the _Atlantia_? Weren’t they supposed to guard the _Quorum_ members?) were trying desperately to bring some semblance of order into the chaos – with very meagre results.

“They’ve always been so fracking useless, and a catastrophe like this didn’t improve them a bit,” Patroclus growled under his breath. 

Serina suppressed a smile. It was strange how everyone, even the aristocrats generally disliked Council Security. One had to wonder why the force hadn’t been dispersed of a long time ago.

Patroclus grinned at her humourlessly, and then he turned to the shuttle crew.

“You know where to take the supplies,” he said. “If anyone tries to lay hand on them – shoot them. Nothing of this goes to anyone, except through me, understood?”

The men – Serina had just realized they were carrying Cathay-6 blasters: sleek little laser weapons with more firepower one would expect them to have – nodded in unison and started offloading the boxes filled with medical supplies that they had removed from the ruined hospital near the evacuation site. The number of the boxes surprised Serina a little.

“I never knew civilian shuttles could carry so much cargo,” she said. 

Patroclus gave her another crooked grin.

“They can’t; not as a rule,” he admitted. “I took a calculated risk, or else I’d have to leave too many supplies behind to take you and the boy in. Overloading the shuttle beyond safety limits or making _Sire_ Uri mad at you… I know which choice _I’d_ make every time. Come now; we’re going to find some quarters for you, and then I’ll have to report in. I’m sure _Sire_ Uri will want to see you as well.”

Serina picked up the strangely listless Boxey who hadn’t spoken a word since they left the planet and followed the tall young man across the shuttle bay. Patroclus weaved his way through the crowd with practiced ease and led her down a long companionway in which refugees had been crammed into many improvised living quarters… small cubicles, really, separated from the rest of the large, empty cargo bay by makeshift walls of any possible materials at hand. In each such cubicle stood a small cot, barely enough for one person, yet each was used by at least two or three.

Living conditions clearly weren’t luxurious on the lower decks of the former luxury liner.

“The five lowest decks are already crammed full,” Patroclus murmured, “but we’ll try to secure a cubicle for you and the child on Level Six… until you find something better.”

Serina seriously doubted that _that_ would be possible – she simply wasn’t important enough for exceptional treatment, not without her mother – but she gave no answer. A small cubicle, shared with the boy, was still a thousand times better than staying behind on the burning planet, waiting for the Cylon death squads to put her out of her misery.

They went to the clerk responsible for the lower decks, a short, silver-curled man by the name of Chella, who had the face of a frightened _leporid_ and pale blue eyes like water. The man soon found them an empty cubicle, where Serina could leave Boxey for the time she’d be visiting _Sire_ Uri, as she remembered well enough the politician’s dislike of small children. Considering that the lower decks were full of juveniles and their caretakers, the _Sire_ must have been displeased enough as things were standing. No need to provoke him by taking another child with her.

Boxey accepted the news with the same listless disinterest with which he’d made the whole trip from the planet to the ship. At least he wasn’t howling for his daggit any more.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can, sweetheart,” Serina murmured, kissing the top of the boy’s tousled head. “Everything is going to be all right, you’ll see. We’re safe now.”

The boy didn’t answer, just kept staring at the ceiling. He didn’t even glance after them when they left the cubicle.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Serina sighed.

Patroclus glanced back at the unresponsive child with professional interest. “A mild form of shock, I assume,” he judged. “Has he eaten or slept properly since the bombing?”

“As well as any of us,” Serina replied. “There was very little food in the shelter where we spent the last two _sectons_ , and even water was rationed. But the other people were kind to him and gave him whatever they could spare.”

“Who is he anyway?” Patroclus asked. “Because I know he’s _not_ your kid. He’s too old for that – at least a _yahren_ , or even more.”

“No, he isn’t,” Serina admitted. “I don’t really know who he is; only that his name’s Boxey. I found him in the rubble during the Cylon attack. At first, in the shelter, he talked with people quite a lot, but since we left the planet…” she shrugged.

“Did he talk about his family, where he comes from?” Patroclus asked. “He seems Caprican, but I don’t think he’d come from an old bloodline. We can do some tests later, though; perhaps we’ll find relatives of his.”

Serina shook her head. “I think he’s blocked out all memories. All he ever talked about was his daggit: a scruffy little creature killed while they were running through the streets. He doesn’t know it’s dead, though; thinks it’s just lost.”

“Let him his dreams, then,” Patroclus suggested. “What else does he have left?”

“He does have _me_ ,” Serina replied with determination.

Patroclus gave him a compassionate look. “What happened to your little boy? I’ve been out with the _Rising Star_ for so long; I couldn’t even catch up with the gossip from home.”

“Not that the gossip shared in your circles would tell anything about _me_ ,” Serina returned bitterly. “But Maboc’s dead. Last _yahren_ … have you heard of that epidemic fever going around among the small children in Caprica City?” Patroclus nodded. “Well, Maboc got it, too… it whisked him away in mere days.”

“So you took in this boy instead him?” Patroclus asked.

Serina nodded. “I couldn’t just leave him behind – he hasn’t got anyone but me. I’ll do my best to raise him as well as I can.”

Unexpectedly, he smiled at him, and it was a smile she remembered from before.

“I’m sure you’ll do a great job,” he said. “You’ve always been like a _lionet_ when it came to children. Come now, let’s face _Sire_ Uri together – everything else depends on what kind of bargain you can cut with him.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
He led her to the elevator that went directly to the elite level of the _Rising Star_ : a cylindrical cabin made of that particular kind of _glassite_ that was transparent from the inside but looked like simple metal from the outside. It also had a bench with velvety padding running around the cabin, and as soon as the doors closed behind them, the lights dimmed and quiet, soothing, intricately melodic music started to emanate from the cleverly hidden speakers.

Serina recognized the melody: it was an ancient chant from Leonis, celebrating the wonders of the harvest - which made sense, considering that _Sire_ Uri, builder and owner of the luxury liner, _was_ a Leonid. He was also known as a great connoisseur of all kinds of art and beauty, and even such a simple, utilitarian thing as an elevator cabin was proof for that.

A golden light switched on suddenly above the doorway, signalling that the elevator was about to stop at the primary elite level. When the slide doors finally opened and they stepped out into the softly lit corridor, Serina took a deep, involuntary breath. Yes, _this_ was the ship she remembered. The ship about the maiden voyage of which she’d made her report – the first one broadcast to all Twelve Worlds.

Unlike the lower decks, originally designed to contain food supplies and other cargo, the elite level had been decorated in the manner of the _New Art_ – the Renaissance’s artistic reaction to the former utilitarian styles, preferred due to hundreds of _yahrens_ of warfare, when resources had majorly been used for defence purposes. It had been President Adar who, following his election to the _Quorum of the Twelve_ , had taken a more moderate approach to the war with the Cylons. The old man had truly, honestly believed that peace had never before been accomplished because the military had too much interest in the continued conflict. Thus he had cut back the budget for defence considerably and called for the Renaissance to usher in a new golden age.

The resources taken away from military purposes had made the great public works projects possible in the first place, orchestrated by _Sire_ Uri as the governor of Caprica, and all manifestations of art, kept on a small flame for such a long time, burst into bloom within a few _yahrens_. The _New Art_ , like most of the creative input during the entire history of the Colonies, originated from Aquarius, but it spread quickly over to most other colonies. Especially the Leonids, who could never warm themselves for the monolithic architecture and pyramidal designs preferred on Caprica and Sagittara, embraced the new style with full enthusiasm.

That style dominated the corridor leading to the _Club Elite_ – the separate area housing _Sire_ Uri’s private quarters and the guest chambers of his friends. A beautiful style it was, with organic, especially floral and other plant-inspired motifs, as well as highly stylized, flowing curvilinear forms. There were sunburst designs in gold above each doorway, framed by slender columns in sky blue and deep blue; the arched ceilings were semi-transparent, made of stained _glassite_ , and the gilded candelabra along the walls made the impression of true lanterns, although they were not, of course.

The guard standing in front of the Club entrance was wearing a livery of deep blue, with golden embroidery on the stand-up collar and the cuffs that showed the same design. The true achievement of the _New Art_ was that if could be adapted to every little detail of life. Serina felt embarrassed, almost ashamed of her stained grey tunic surrounded by all this exquisite beauty. Oh, she’d match the surroundings so well, if she only had any proper clothes! But as things were at the moment, she had to accept the situation, as little as she liked it.

The guard apparently knew Patroclus, because he stepped out of their way without asking questions, allowing them into the great ballroom of the _Rising Star_. At least Serina’s memory told her that this place had originally been designed as a ballroom. Right now, it looked more like the court of some legendary prince. Complete with courtiers and their ladies.

She recognized most of them, of course. Like herself, they came from the lesser nobility, as the heads of the Great Houses had died aboard the _Atlantia_. All of them, with the sole exception of the far-sighted Commander Adama, who’d never trusted the sudden peaceful turn of the Cylons. _Sire_ Uri’s court consisted of younger sons of the younger sons, ambitious yet less influential politicians of the second ranks and the likes.

There was _Siress Aeriana_ , for example, the new First Matriarch of the Submitters, now that venerable old Hahti was dead. A sleek, dark-haired woman of middle age and middle height, with jewelled black eyes that could mesmerise anyone they caught unawares like those of an _opiuchian_ … and every bit as cold.

She was flanked by two female guards that could have been the younger copies of herself, clad in skin-tight black leather and wearing half a dozen different weapons, not counting those hidden somewhere on their bodies, unlikely as it seemed by _that_ outfit. In theory, weapons were not allowed aboard luxury liners, but nobody in their right minds would dare to challenge an Aerian amazon about her weapons. Especially not any male who didn’t want to be neutered on the spot.

There was _Sire_ Geller, the late Aquarian ambassador’s chief aide: an elderly, servile and not very bright man, who could nonetheless count on being elected to the new _Quorum_ in the not-too-distant future. While Aquarius had never sported all that many noble houses, the few still existing patricians – like Patroclus himself – were highly respected and had many privileges. Even more so if they could prove some however far-fetched relation to the long-extinct Royal House.

The only such person, to Serina’s knowledge, was young Darius, son of the legendary Devon, commander of the Fourth Fleet, who’d chosen to study art and philosophy at the _Aquarian School of Enlightenment_ rather than follow his father's distinguished career and was a celebrated poet. Serina had met him a few times, as he was very popular and had often been interviewed in Transmission, but while she had to admit that he was gifted indeed, she found him too effeminate for her taste.

Of course, not only did Aquarians generally have two strings to their bow, with not always a clear preference for one gender or another, Darius himself was openly _flit_ and apparently very comfortable with his orientation. A tall, slender, flat-chested and narrow-shouldered young man, with the pretty, youthful face and the waist-long, lush dark mane of a girl, people often wondered whether he was a _twitter_ , too: male and female in one.

So far the question couldn’t be answered to general satisfaction, although many newswomen working for gossip columns had done their best – or worst, depending on one’s point of view – to learn the truth. Serina was fairly certain that the gossip mill would start running again, as soon as people got over their first shock. After all, there wouldn’t be much entertainment during their flight, save the one they provided themselves.

There was _Sire_ Ixion, a middle-aged, silver-haired aristocrat from Gemini, his face smooth, ageless and beautiful, his mind said to be shrewd and ruthless. He’d long been foreseen to take over the Gemoni seat in the _Quorum_ , but according to tradition, public offices on Gemini were worn for lifetime, and one could only get promoted when one’s predecessor died. And the old councillor had sat in his seat firmly, despite his one hundred and thirty-three _yahrens_. It had taken _Sire_ Ixion almost two decades – _and_ the Destruction – to finally come into his right.

The man in question glanced at Serina fleetingly over the head of a scantily-clad young woman who was wearing a headdress made of scarlet feathers in Taurean fashion and gave her a tolerant smile. Serina felt her cheeks heat up with embarrassment. She’d forgotten that _Sire_ Ixion, like many Gemons, was a short-range telepath and that she ought to keep her thoughts under tighter control around him. Fortunately, he was also known as one who didn’t take offence easily, so she didn’t have to worry about his reactions.

The same couldn’t be said of _Sire_ Gamesh of Libra, son of an ancient and wealthy although not particularly influential family. A close associate of _Sire_ Uri since his youth, he was in his splendid best: a man of middle stature who, nonetheless, looked much taller than he actually was, due to the flowing, colourful robes he preferred to wear in Libran fashion, and because of his narrow, elongated head. With his short-cropped, black hair, large, dark eyes and chiselled features, he reminded one of the ebony statues of the Lords of Kobol, standing in the Temple Quarter of his native Arbor.

He was the most beautiful man Serina had ever seen... or was ever likely to see in the future. Even among the very exotic Librans, he was a unique specimen whose beauty didn’t quite conceal the ruthless strength and powerful will behind that attractive surface. He was a political animal if there ever had been one, a charismatic leader and a skilled rhetor. Had he come from one of the Great Houses, he’d have been President of the Twelve Worlds and Libra the lead colony for _yahrens_ by now.

Even so, he was a force to be counted with, a man with ample experience on the political playground. As _Sire_ Uri’s protégé, he had held several minor positions in government before the Destruction, and there could be little doubt that he would climb the ladder of political impotence again, sooner or later. He was born to be a leader.

Compared with him, _Sire_ Anton, once the aide-de-camp of the late President Adar, looked like a dotardly old man, living out his last _yahrens_ in happy ignorance. But Serina had heard enough from her mother to know that the hawk-faced, emaciated old-line politicio from Scorpia was crafty – and still ambitious enough – to surprise everyone. Under normal circumstances, Anton preferred to rule from behind the throne; but he might change his mind in the future, should things not develop to his liking.

And he had allies, too – mostly clueless ones, who had no idea that they were being used and manipulated. Like _Siress_ Tinia from Canceria, who’d been working on a fairly unremarkable career as a politician all her life. Now that the big players had been forcibly removed from the game, she might get her choice… and she would do everything to achieve that goal.

Or like _Sire_ Lobe from Piscera, a well-meaning but not terribly bright man, always wanting to be allied with the ones who wielded true power and so very easily manipulated. Or _Sire_ Domra, an elderly Taurus, full of self-importance yet tragically lacking any independent thought or an opinion of his own.

Serina’s mother had known them all. She’d even grown up with some of them. Just like the members of the Great Houses, the lesser nobility had mostly socialized within their own circles. And as long as Lyra had been alive, Serina, too, often spent time in their homes and got to know the younger generation that was now sparsely represented here.

As she walked up towards _Sire_ Uri’s throne-like seat, escorted by Patroclus, she suddenly realized that she was most likely looking at the future leaders of what remained from a population of billions. Considering what she knew about them, it was a sobering thought.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Serina hadn’t seen _Sire_ Uri for at least five _yahrens_. Not since her civil union with Boreas, in any case, even though the known fact that he’d used to be her patron had eased her way to a certain extent in the media business. But they hadn’t met in person since Lyra’s death. It had always been _Siress_ Electra she’d kept sporadic contact with.

She remembered a tall, handsome man of Lyra’s age, well-fed and well-preserved, with a full head of slick black hair and shrewd, intelligent eyes – and an imperious bearing that made him look much younger than his actual _yahrens_. Now that she was standing face to face with him, she was shocked by the damage the recent _yahrens_ had done to the man.

His shoulders were stooped now, as if he’d carried a burden beyond his strength for quite a while. He’d lost most of his hair, and what was still there of it had turned grey. There was a definite suggestion of jowliness, a marked extension of his waistline, and his face was slack and his eyes heavy-lidded. But behind those heavy lids, the eyes themselves were still watchful and observant; he was still the aristocratic politician who’d been extremely popular all over the planet Leonis – or on Caprica, for that matter.

Had he not been hand-picked by President Adar to work with him as the governor of Caprica, he surely would have been elected as the representative of his home planet in the _Quorum of Twelve_.

In which case he’d be dead now, of course. Serina wondered whether he saw his escape as a course or as a blessing. Certainly, being spared was a good thing _per se_ , but having to leave behind all the great achievements he’d worked on all his adult life as a pile of smouldering ruins must have been bitter for a man who mainly defined himself through his work and his achievements.

The man looked at them with moderate interest, and Patroclus sketched a bow – more out of mocking respect for etiquette than out of necessity. He came from the same social circles as _Sire_ Uri, after all; he wasn’t obliged to bow to him.

“We’ve secured the supplies, _Sire_ Uri,” he reported. “The medical cupboards and the storerooms are full – with a little luck, they will last for a while. And look whom I’ve found on my way back.”

He gave Serina a gentle push to go forward. Serina understood the unspoken message and curtseyed, as if was custom in her mother’s family.

“ _Sire_ Uri, it’s a relief to see you alive and well,” she said honestly. She owed the man a great deal of gratitude, after all.

The man’s balding head, that seemed strangely oversized compared with the rest of his slackened body, dipped in a short nod, and his features rearranged themselves into a benevolent smile.

“And you, Serina,” he said, his voice still as sonorous as always. “We’ve seen your report on Transmission. It was… moving, really. Moving and well-executed. Very well done indeed. I always knew you had a knack for that sort of thing. It’s unfortunate that your big breakthrough was shortened so tragically.”

“A terrible thing for us all,” Serina agreed cautiously. When dealing with _Sire_ Uri, it was always better to keep one’s cards close to one’s chest. At least until one figured out what the man was really thinking.

“We were cruising the outer planets when it happened,” _Sire_ Uri explained mournfully. “Of course, we turned back at once when we picked up Transmission, but…” he made a defeated gesture with one large hand. “It was already too late.”

Not that the _Rising Star_ could have done anything to stop the Cylon attack, of curse – aside from offering a new, tempting target. She was a luxury liner, not a Battlestar. The sharpest weapons on board were the kitchen knives. It was the sentiment that counted, though.

“Too late for us all, it seems,” Serina murmured. Then she looked around, seeking the one person that should have been here but was nowhere to see. “By the way, I’d like to pay my respects to _Siress_ Electra, unless she’s retired already.”

“I must regretfully tell you that _Siress_ Uri is gone,” the man put considerable emphasis on the name, as if he wanted to reinforce his ownership. “She failed to arrive at the rallying point in time to be rescued with the rest of us.”

Serina was shaken. _Siress_ Electra, the oldest friend of her mother, had been a kind woman, whose beauty had long burned to ashes, but who’d still had great interest in art and in the talent of gifted young people. She’d been like a mother to them all – perhaps because she’d never had children of her own.

Not after her first, scandalous pregnancy, that is. But very few people remembered that old scandal – or the stillborn baby – anymore, and from the younger generation, nobody had ever heard of it. She’d simply been considered as childless, and she’d certainly poured all her energies into supporting those who needed her help.

“That’s a tremendous loss indeed,” Serina murmured, trying to keep her grief well-controlled. _Sire_ Uri would have taken offence, had she made a scene of it. “She was an extraordinary person and a great support for us all.”

Especially for her husband, whom she’d supported unquestioningly in his public work, acting subtly in the background, while Uri had made the public appearances.

“Yes, she was,” _Sire_ Uri agreed, with just the right amount of sadness to still look dignified. “We all have our losses. But we’re also alive, and life must go on. The Lords of Kobol have been gracious to spare us; and I’m glad that Patroclus has found you. We’ll try to find you a nice little compartment here; although there’s actually very little place to have right now. We had to crowd ourselves together quite a bit, even on the elite level. But once some of us move on to the ships of their own colonies…”

“Oh, I’m well taken care of,” Serina interrupted, as he clearly wasn’t going to make any promises. “I’ve been given a cubicle on the sixth passenger level – enough for me and my little son. As we’ve nothing left but the clothes we’re wearing, we don’t need all that much room, really.”

“Still, a celebrity like you ought to do a little better than the common crowd,” a handsome, dark-haired young nobleman, whom she couldn’t remember to have met before, argued. “I’d be happy to be of assistance.”

Patroclus shot him a somewhat unfriendly look. “Are you prepared to deal with a sullen six- _yahren_ -old who refuses to speak because he’s mourning his pet daggit, _Sire_ Telamon?” he asked.

Telamon! So that was why she hadn’t recognized him! The youngest son of one of Carpica’s greatest Houses, second only to the Adamans and the House of Lares, he certainly hadn’t mingled with women of questionable origins. He might have patronized _socialators_ ; but on Gemini, _socialators_ were considered part of the elite, the counterpart of the highly respected virgin priestesses. A woman born out of a _mésaliance_ , however, could not hope to be respected in Telamon’s circles.

There could be very little doubt about the nature of the assistance the young patrician was offering. Serina tried _not_ to take offence, but it wasn’t an easy thing. She _did_ come from an old and respected family from her mother’s side, after all – how did he _dare_ to treat him like a common concubine? Even if he knew about her former attachment to Patroclus – which he probably did, there had been no secrets in high Caprican society – it didn’t give him the right to treat him like that, and in earshot of all the remaining nobility… well, most of them anyway.

Patroclus clearly could feel her rising ire, and he knew her well enough to know that – unless he acted quickly – she might do something she’d regret later.

“With your permission, _Sire_ Uri,” he turned to their patron, “Serina used to be my dependant before. I’m certain I can find a way to assist her, without the need to bring the child up to the elite level.”

 _Sire_ Uri nodded in obvious relief. He couldn’t refuse to help her without losing face, but he clearly didn’t want a child there, disturbing the life of the elite level. He’d never liked children, never wanted any of his own, and he most certainly didn’t want the child of a dependant to be underfoot.

“Very well,” he said. “She’s your responsibility, then. See that she doesn’t lack the basic necessities. We can’t offer much, but what we have we’ll share whole-heartedly.”

Taking in the luxurious surroundings and the remains of an opulent meal left on the tables – food rests that could have fed at least one entire level of the refugees, crowded in their tiny cubicles – Serina had to work very hard to stay calm. Offending the man wouldn’t have helped anyone, and she had Boxey to consider. But it wasn’t easy. Hypocrisy had always brought out the worst of her.

To hide her true feelings, she curtseyed again and murmured the proper word of gratitude. Then she allowed Patroclus to lead her out of the _Club Elite_.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They took the elevator again and rode it down some ten levels – not back to the hurriedly established refugee camps, though. They were still on the elite level, formerly meant for wealthy passengers… the lowest deck of the passenger area, to be accurate, where the Life Station of the ship was situated.

It had nothing to do with the similarly-named infirmaries of a Battlestar, of course. This was a deck designed to serve the needs of the rich and the pampered – with swimming pools, mud baths, massage rooms, exercise rooms and other such facilities, in which the passengers could spend their time and have their looks taken care of.

At least that had been its original function. Now, however, it had been turned into a makeshift infirmary. The therapy pool now served as the public bath, as the refugees had no other means to clean themselves. The exercise rooms were filled with pallet beds for the sick and the injured. The massage rooms were reassigned as living quarters for whatever medical personnel could be found among the refugees: doctors, med techs, nurses, caretakers for orphaned children. They were Spartan little chambers, but still a hundred times better than some cubicle on the lower decks – besides, medical personnel needed to be close to their patients.

Patroclus had his own quarters here, too, since was the doctor originally assigned to the _Rising Star_.

“You don’t live in excessive luxury here,” Serina commented, looking around in his quarters. They were nice, but didn’t even come close to his old penthouse in Caprica City; the one she’d used to share with him for _yahrens_.

They were the standard quarters of a young doctor, nothing more, nothing less, with no regard of his origins. They consisted of a living room, with direct access to his office that could also be entered from the Life Station, a bedroom with an adjoining walk-in closet and a bathroom. The latter had the luxury of a real hot tube, though, not just the standard turbowash. There was also a kitchenette between the living room and his office, and a small storage room that he was apparently using as a lab. Nobly born or not, Patroclus was clearly first and foremost a doctor… and a dedicated one, at that.

At Serina’s comment, he only shrugged. “At least I’m still living in my own,” he said. “As I’ve been here for _yahrens_ , I had the chance to take with me whatever small comfort I wanted to keep from home. Well, I guess this _is_ home now. I’ve been lucky; luckier than most.”

Which was very true, Serina admitted. People living on starships had always been pitied for spending most oft heir time far from home. Ironically, now these people were the only ones to _have_ some kind of home. Life could be deeply odd sometimes.

“You can stay here with me if you want to,” Patroclus continued, caressing her dirty face with his thumb gently.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “Boxey…”

“We can smuggle him into the Life Station to be close,” Patroclus offered. “Or you can leave him where he’s now – he’s close enough, you only have to climb down one level to be with him, and we have an emergency ladder behind the lab. You can be with him whenever you want.”

“I don’t know,” she said uncertainly, but Patroclus silenced her by laying a finger across her lips.

“Telamon is right, you know. Such a small cubicle, with no privacy at all, is not the right place for you. Besides,” he added with almost brutal honesty, “I’m tired of being alone. I’ve missed you, and I’d gladly keep you as long as you’re willing to stay with me. Just like in old times, no strings attached.”

The offer was tempting. Too tempting to resist, after the horrors of the bombing, then the _sectons_ spent in the shelter, the fear, the uncertainty… she desperately needed someone to lean on. She was sufficient enough to care for herself and the child, under normal circumstances, more so than most people, but these were _not_ normal circumstances, and she knew she wouldn’t last long on the lower decks. She needed help if she wanted to make it, and an old acquaintance, whom she could always trust was much better than trying to seek out a new patron.

“All right,” she whispered. “I’ll stay… for now.”

That was all she could promise, and they both knew it. The future – _if_ there was going to be one – was too unsure to begin to build anything lasting just now. But at least they had each other for the moment, and she felt a half-forgotten, familiar heat pooling in her belly as he took her face into his hands and leaned in to kiss her.

He was a very tall man; she barely reached his shoulder with the top of her head. The angle was awkward and uncomfortable, so he lifted her, seemingly without effort, and placed her on the edge of his desk. She grabbed his shoulder to keep her balance, as he began to familiarize himself with her body again. He had a good memory, apparently, finding all the right spots, even after all those _yahrens_ , kissing her with the desperate hunger of a starving man.

This had nothing to do with their sophisticated love-play from the time they had been together. This was honest and artless and wonderful in its own way, and they both needed it, needed it more than anything at this very moment.

Well… almost anything.

“Wait!” Serina gasped when he began to divest her from her dirty clothes. “I’m… I’m absolutely filthy… disgusting. Do you think… do you think I could use the turbowash first? Or are your water supplies limited?”

“Actually, it’s just a sonic shower,” Patroclus kept unclothing her unerringly. “And taking a proper bath would take too much time right now. In one _centare_ , I’m on duty again. But we can still share the turbowash, I guess – I’m filthy enough myself.”

“That’s very economical of you,” Serina grinned at him and ran into the bathroom, excited and happier than she’d been for a very long time.

He laughed and followed her, leaving a trail of discarded clothes behind.

Only a _centare_ later, when Serina returned to Boxey, sated and still buzzing with the afterglow, wearing fresh clothes Patroclus had organized for her from somewhere, did it occur to her that she hadn’t even asked if _Sire_ Antipas had made it, after all.


	6. Chapter 4 - Apollo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part was a little tricky to write. I needed some mental acrobatics to get all characters to the places where they were canonically supposed to be.  
> As already mentioned, I work with the original concept of Boxey not being Serina’s natural son. And remember that Patroclus is actually Dr. Paye from the pilot.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 04 – APOLLO**

Getting used to her new life aboard the _Rising Star_ proved easier than Serina would have thought. She practically lived in Patroclus’ quarters, although she spent most of the time he was on duty with Boxey… or exploring the ship. As Patroclus was one of the only three doctors on board, he worked sixteen- _centare_ -shifts, so she had time enough for herself. And as a newswoman, even one without a network to support her, she found it her duty – and her right – to know what was going on in the different compartments.

What she found out, she didn’t like at all.

If she’d thought upon her arrival that the cargo bay-turned-personal compartment offered horrible living conditions, she could see now that the situation was worse than she’d originally thought. Much worse. On six levels, every single cargo hall was packed with people – old, young, crippled, babes on arms, of all social circles save the nobility. 

Some of them just lay on the floor of their tiny cubicles, too exhausted and spent to even care about anything, staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. Others crammed together in small groups, discussing the conditions with ever-growing anger and despair.

Because conditions had been far from ideal to begin with - and were getting worse with each passing day. Something must have gone wrong with the ventilation system; the air had become thick and seemed to resist inhalation. Chella, the _leporid_ -faced, overworked manager of the lower decks, reported the problem, but so far no-one had come to make the necessary repairs.

The distribution of food had become irregular. Sometimes the lower decks did not receive food – or even water – for days. Washing was not possible, and medical aid was practically nonexistent, except in the direst of cases. The people were filthy, hungry, thirsty, sick and desperate.

“I don’t understand,” Serina complained to Patroclus after her daily visit at Boxey’s cubicle. “I’ve seen ample food reserves in the former baggage areas. Some of them were harvested from Caprica itself.”

“And therein lies the problem,” Patroclus answered tiredly. “Most of the supplies have been contaminated and are practically useless. The agroships won’t reach harvest time before the next _sectare_ ; until then, things will most likely remain critical.”

“Contaminated?” Serina repeated in shock. “How is that possible? Hadn’t the supplies been checked before they were boarded?”

“For radiation, yes,” Patroclus sighed. “But there was no time to check for Pluton poisoning.”

Serina blanched. From her mother’s reports, who’d visited several outer colonies before her death (mostly small agrist planets that the Cylons had attacked with the explicit goal to destroy food resources), so she knew what Pluton poisoning meant. Pluton broke down the cellular structure of food – but not at once. It worked slowly, gradually; in the first phase, the foodstuffs checked out all right, unless examined with a time-consuming method in well-equipped laboratories.

Laboratories the fugitives no longer had.

But even in the early stages, Pluton was deadly poisonous for humans. Consumed with the food, it got absorbed by the human digestive system and began to break down the cellular structure of any living organism as well, causing a slow yet inevitable death.

“What about the food on the elite level?” she asked tonelessly. “Is it contaminated as well? Are _we_ going to die?”

Patroclus shook his head. “No; everything up there is from earlier times; grown on the inner colonies and shipped to the _Rising Star_ along safe delivery lines.”

Serina began to see a pattern there. “So that’s why food distribution has been so erratic lately: _Sire_ Uri doesn’t dare to give the people the contaminated food, but he also tries to keep as much of the safe resources for himself and his friends as he can.”

Patroclus nodded. “I’m afraid that’s true.”

“That’s _disgusting_!” Serina hissed. “They let people starve, just because they don’t want to give up their luxury…”

“They’re _afraid_ , Serina,” the doctor interrupted gently. “Can’t you understand that? They’ve lead a life in abundance until now; the perspective of not having everything whenever they want scares them. They’re not _used_ to it; and it makes them selfish.”

“It’s still wrong,” Serina said stubbornly.

“Perhaps,” Patroclus allowed with a shrug. “But don’t forget that we – you and I and your so-called son – are also profiting from our access to a secure food source. So be careful before you’d judge others.”

“Is there nothing you can do?” Serina asked. “ _Sire_ Uri values you a great deal.”

“He values what I can do to make his life – and that of his friends – comfortable,” Patroclus corrected. “He doesn’t value my _opinion_ ; in fact, he prefers it when I keep my opinion to myself. And anyway, I’m leaving the _Rising Star_ soon, so I won’t be able to do anything, even if I were stupid enough to try.”

“Leaving?” Serina repeated, shocked. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve been reassigned to the _Galactica_ ,” Patroclus explained. “Apparently, the few doctors they have over there can’t run Life Centre without help. They’re getting sick and injured people from all over the Fleet.”

“But… but you’re _needed_ here!” Serina protested.

He gave her a darkly amused look. “Am I? What am I doing here that would truly count, Serina? I’m holding the hands of hysterical noblewomen and prescribe medicine that would be desperately needed elsewhere to their husbands when they’ve gobbled up more than their sensitive stomachs could hold. No; I’ll be much more useful aboard the _Galactica_ , where there are real patients to treat.”

“You’ve treated many of the injured on Life Station, regardless of their origins or former personal wealth,” Serina reminded him. “I’ve seen it.”

“That was at the beginning,” Patroclus replied tiredly. “ _Sire_ Uri has ordered medical supplies to be used more sparsingly and to save them for the really important people. _His_ words, not mine. Unfortunately, this is also his ship and he can use its resources as he pleases. Besides, most of my earlier charges have died already, despite my best efforts to save them. Aboard the _Galactica_ , I will at least be allowed to help. They’re taking there the most urgent cases from all over the Fleet. The Lords of Kobol may bless Commander Adama.”

“And what’s gonna happen to me?” she demanded. “To Boxey? Who’ll take care of us when you’re gone?”

“It’s been my impression that you can take care of yourself well enough,” Patroclus’ smile grew a little colder. “Besides, I’m sure that _Sire_ Uri will hold his protective hand above you. You can keep my quarters in any case; it’s not very likely that another doctor would come here and demand the rooms.”

His cold answer hit her harder than it should have. After all, their arrangement had been a purely practical one: he’d offered her a certain level of comfort and safety in exchange for sexual favours. Just like in old times when she’d been his mistress. Still, she’d thought she had him in a tighter grip. Either he knew her too well, or she was losing her touch.

“When are you leaving?” she asked, accepting the inevitable.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” he replied. “Captain Apollo is coming over from the _Galactica_ to check on the food situation. I’ll return with them by shuttle.”

He nodded and left to visit a patrician patient with some kind of imagined condition. Serina collapsed on their shared bed, her thoughts racing. _One_ day! She had _one_ day to work out a plan that would get her off the _Rising Star_ and aboard a ship with better living conditions… preferably even with privileges.

The ideal solution would have been the Com-Tel ship, of course. It was the one IFB was being broadcast from, after all, and she _was_ a newswoman; one of the few who’d survived. But the Com-Tel ship was owned by _Sire_ Anton, flying under Scorpian flag, and she hadn’t had the time to manipulate herself into the good graces of the powerful old politician yet. Without his support, IFB would never accept her. Not even as a passenger, much less as a member of the news group.

So, the next best place would be the _Galactica_. The only surviving Battlestar of the Fleet, as a purely military vessel, had the highest priorities before every other ship where supplies were concerned. _And_ it was also the safest place.

She had to get aboard the _Galactica_ , no matter what the costs. Only there would she be relatively safe and could take proper care of Boxey. But how was she going to achieve _that_? It was adamantly clear that she couldn’t count on Patroclus’ help any longer.

Wait a _micron_! What had Patroclus just said? That Captain Apollo was coming over to check on the food situation? Serina nodded and a slow smile began to spread over her beautiful face. She remembered Captain Apollo well enough from their first and so far only encounter on Caprica. She also remembered the reports and interviews from her previous workplace.

An idealistic young warrior; brave, noble, steadfast… and utterly naïve, if at least ten per cent of the rumours about him came even close to the truth. Yes, she could do this. If only she could arrange an _accidental_ run-in with the young Captain, she would be able to do it.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
She managed to sneak up to the heir of the House of Adama when Apollo finished the examination of the contaminated food sources and was standing in the dimly lit corridor that connected the _Rising Star_ ’s two former baggage areas, now serving as cargo rooms for food supplies.

“Jolly, have your crews go through every container,” he was telling the chubby, moustachioed officer who looked like a shaggy, overgrown daggit; how could the Fleet allow people like that to put on a uniform to begin with? “Chances are some of the supports were shielded enough from the bombs to be saved.”

The fat pilot with the ridiculous name didn’t look particularly confident. Knowing what she did about Pluton poisoning, Serina didn’t blame him.

“This is the third ship we’ve checked so far,” he said. “It isn’t looking good. I don’t know how we’ll be able to hold out until the first harvest.”

“Salvage anything you can,” Apollo ordered. “Even scraps will help.”

“What do we do with the rest?” the fat pilot asked.

Apollo seemed to find it difficult to phrase his response.

“Jettison it,” he said in defeat. “And keep the lid on the problem. If people find out we haven’t got any food we’re going to have a mutiny on our hands.”

 _More than you might think, Captain, my Captain_ , Serina thought grimly, preparing to run into the warrior by 'accident' as soon as he moved on.

“C’mon, Boomer,” Apollo said to the dark-skinned, most likely Libran officer waiting for him. “There’s something I want to check out on the elite level.”

And with that, he hurried down the corridor as if in response to a full alert.

Carefully calculating angle and speed, Serina came around the corner and bumped into the briskly walking man. As they backed away from each other, she’d have liked to laugh at the awkwardness of their situation but Apollo’s coldly furious look made her think better of it. So she simply smiled at him, and then waited for his response.

He just continued to look at her, his incredible green eyes showing no emotion at all. Serina was more impressed with him now than she’d been when they’d first met among the smouldering ruins of Caprica City. Here, in his true element, he appeared to be just the kind of man you could rely on in an emergency – something she’d come to appreciate greatly in these days.

She also found him very attractive, now that she had the chance to take a closer look at him. In spite of his impressive looks, however, there was a deep-rooted bitterness, a drawing back from that which shouldn’t be touched, hinted at by his stiff bearing and in the way one corner of his mouth turned down. Bitterness… or anger perhaps? Or grief?

She held out a slim hand, which he took with a definite lack of eagerness for social amenities. Warriors could be so single-minded sometimes. Fortunately, she had her methods to get beyond their shields.

“My name is Serina, Captain Apollo,” she began amiably, her mind racing to find just the word that would get him in action.

Those beautiful green eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I remember your name,” he said – rather brusquely, in fact. Had he thought she’d had anything to do with the enraged crowd at the ruins of his family’s home?

Serina raised an eyebrow and changed tactics. Apparently, by this man one needed to get into the conflict headfirst.

“Come down off your epaulettes, Captain,” she said dryly. “I need to talk to you.”

“Look, Miss Serina,” he tried to evade her, “I’m very busy now. I’ve got to…”

“Oh, are you?” she interrupted tartly. “Well, in that case far be it from me to interfere with your duties. Another time, perhaps – assuming there _will_ be another time.”

She whirled around and started to walk away from him. It was a calculated risk that could turn out a mistake, were he more experienced with female tactics than she thought him to be. But clearly, he was not. He held out his hand to stop her, looking slightly ashamed.

“Wait a _micron_ , please,” then he turned to the young black officer following him. “Boomer, why don’t you go up to elite class and see if there’s anything going on we should be concerned about.”

Serina could have told him he wouldn’t like what he was about to see, but she decided it would be better for him to find it out for himself.

The officer nodded and left, and Apollo turned back to Serina,

“Well, then, what can I do for you?” his voice was coldly polite, but he couldn’t quite hide his irritation with her. Caprican men and their overwhelming sense of duty… they were so predictable, really.

“Please, come with me,” she said, avoiding a direct answer. “It won’t take long, I promise.”

She led him down the series of hallways housing the lowest-class refugees. Apollo looked in ill-concealed shock at the people crowded into their narrow cubicles.

“I’d have thought a celebrity like you’d do a little better than this,” he commented. “A neat little compartment of your own on the elite levels…” he trailed off. 

His comment reminded him of the thinly veiled offer of _Sire_ Telamon, and she was getting angry. Who gave him the right to judge her before he would even know her?

“I was offered that from several men whose approaches were anything but subtle,” she replied smoothly. It wasn’t even a lie; not directly. _Sire_ Telamon _had_ offered, after all. “I had no interest in pulling space, though,” she added, which was kind of true, too. Patroclus would have occupied the same rooms, with or without her. “I took what I could get fairly.”

She could see at once that it had been the right thing to say. The cold hostility vanished from the green eyes; his patrician features softened considerably.

“That was very selfless of you,” he said with warm sincerity. 

Sagan, but he was really so naïve! Even cute, in his own way, despite the ramrod he seemed to have up his astrum.

Serina shrugged. “Well, we need to stick together in these times, don’t we? Anyway, here we are. I hope you can help me with Boxey. I don’t know what do with him.”

“Boxey… is he your son?” he asked, clearly surprised that she would have a child.

She hesitated for a moment. If she told him the truth, they might take Boxey from her and put him on the Orphan Ship, with the other children. On the other hand, if she lied to Apollo _now_ , and the truth came out later, she’d lose his respect – and his trust – forever. All things considered, gambling with the trust was the lesser risk here.

“No, he isn’t” she admitted quietly. “My own son died half a _yahren_ ago. I found Boxey in the rubble during the bombings. But everyone thinks he _is_ my son. Otherwise I couldn’t have brought him with me. He needed someone to take care of him.” 

She looked at the young captain pleadingly, refraining from such cheap effect as crying. She could see that she’d gambled well. Apollo was now looking at her with definite respect and compassion.

“What’s wrong with him?” he asked gently.

“I’m not really sure,” she answered. “Doctor Paye said it would be a mild form of shock, most likely. He hasn’t eaten or spoken since we cam aboard, and I’m afraid to lose him, in the end...”

“So you _have_ food,” his brows knitted ever so slightly.

“I managed to get some from _Sire_ Uri, on the upper level,” another carefully tailored truth. “He is – or rather his _wife_ was – a friend of my mother. But Boxey won’t eat it. I don’t know what to do with him. The poor child has blocked out all memory. He doesn’t even seem to know anymore that I’m not actually his mother.”

“He never talked about his family?” Apollo asked with a frown. “Not even while you were still down on the planet?”

Serina shook her head. “None. The only thing I definitely know is that his mother is dead; she was killed during the bombing of Caprica City less than a _metron_ from me.”

“But he _did_ talk to you while you were down on Caprica?” Apollo tried to clarify things.

Serina shrugged. “Not too much. Mostly, he was crying for his little daggit that got killed while they were running through the streets; Muffit, I think it was called. I’m not sure he knows it’s dead; he probably thinks it’s just lost. Perhaps you might be able to help…”

Apollo nodded. “Of course. I’ll have him dispatched to the Life Centre right away… together with his _mother_ …” he added with a faint smile. A potentially handsome one, Serina was careful to note.

She relaxed the breath she had been holding during their whole conversation. That had been easier than expected; however, showing her triumph would have been a mistake, so she held back as well as she could… and she was good at hiding her true feelings.

“Thank you, Captain; I’m in your debt forever. Would you take a look at him, though? I have the feeling that you’re pretty good with children.”

For a _micron_ , a look of profound sadness and loss flickered across Apollo’s face that she couldn’t understand. But she began to suspect that the young captain might be more complicated than she’d thought. She’d have to gamble very carefully around him.

“I grew up with a kid brother,” Apollo said. “Well, let’s take a look at your little Boxey.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Serina led him down the long companionway, to Boxey’s little niche. The boy was lying on the cot as every time she’d visited him, staring at the ceiling and ignoring his surroundings. Apollo walked around the cot and leaned forward, right into the child’s field of view.

“Excuse me,” he said in a crisp, military manner. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.” The boy’s eyes widened as he recognized his visitor as a Colonial Warrior. “I’m in charge of finding young men to try out as future Viper pilots,” Apollo continued, pulling his digital notebook out of his pocket and pretending to check the name list on the small screen. “Your name is Boxey, correct?”

The boy stared at him in amazement and made a wordless sound of confirmation. “Uh huh…”

Apollo nodded. He moved to the edge of the bed and crouched down beside it. The boy shifted into a sitting position to the wall side of his cot and continued staring at him in awe.

“Good,” Apollo said. “I’ve been looking all over for you. You know you should’ve made contact with the commander. We’re very short on pilots.”

The boy looked confused and Serina stifled a smile. The child was so cute; and Apollo really seemed to know how to say the right thing to catch his attention.

“I’m… I’m too little to be a pilot,” Boxey then whispered – the first words he’d ever said aboard the _Rising Star_. Serina felt like crying in relief… but also a little jealous. She’d tried her best for _days_ , but Boxey never reacted. Yet it only took a stranger in uniform… well, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he’d finally come out of his fugue.

“Oh, sure you are, right now,” Apollo said to him. “But how long do you think it takes to become a full Colonial Warrior?”

Boxey shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You have to start when you’re very small, or you won’t get these until you have grey hair,” 

Apollo pointed to the captain’s rank pins on the collar of his uniform tunic. Boxey lifted his head to stare at the shiny emblems, his eyes widening with interest.

“You like them?” Apollo asked.

Boxey seemed about to respond enthusiastically, but the interest vanished as quickly as it had come, and he put his head back on his pillow.

“I want Muffit,” he said sullenly.

Tears of disappointment came to Serina’s eyes, and she wondered if she should back out of the small niche, stay out of sight in the hallway until the captain was through or had given up.

“Well, I don’t know,” Apollo said, as if considering a serious problem. “Not much room for daggits in the cockpit of a Viper.”

The boy gave him the look smart children reserved for particularly dumb adults. “There are no daggits,” he explained patiently. “I asked.”

Apollo glanced back at Serina. His face seemed less severe in the dim light. She didn’t know what to say – she had no idea that the boy had talked to _anyone_ on board.

“Well,” Apollo said to Boxey, “tell you what. Here, you take one of these,” he removed one of the pin from his collar and placed it above the pocket of the boy’s tunic. “You take this until I furnish you the proper emblem. Now, as Colonial Warrior First Level, you are entitled to the first daggit that comes along.”

He rose and started for the door, where he hesitated, then looked back and said. “But only on the condition that you get rest, eat all of your primaries and stop chasing girls. Good day, officer.”

He smiled at the boy and left the cubicle. Serina followed him out, taking with her the image of Boxey staring transfixed at the rank pin fastened upon his tunic. 

She found Apollo waiting for her in the corridor, still smiling. She returned his smile, careful to keep it purely one of gratitude… for now.

“Thank you,” she said. “See, I was right. You are good with children. You and your brother must be very close.”

“We were,” he replied, that peculiar look of sadness and grief flickering across his face again.”

“I’m sorry,” she back-pedalled hurriedly, “I didn’t know. The war…?”

He nodded. “On his first patrol. He was the very first victim at Cimtar.”

She didn’t know what to say. She never had siblings, nor did she miss having them. But she could see that for him, this had been a great personal tragedy.

“Look,” she began uncertainly, “if you’d rather not involve yourself with…” but he interrupted her with a raised hand.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” his smile was sad but gentle. “After losing everything, it’s actually a relief to achieve at least some small victories.”

“That wasn’t a small victory, Captain,” Serina stated. “You’ve accomplished something here… something important.”

“Sure; I cheered up a six- _yahren_ -old,” he answered tiredly, the smile vanishing from his face. 

But she could see that he _was_ feeling better about himself. Warriors often needed a great deal of reassurance, no matter how tough they liked to present themselves… and it seemed that to win over this particular warrior wouldn’t be all that hard, after all. It only took a cute kid and some honesty… a carefully measured amount of the latter anyway.

“And that is no small feat in these days,” she pointed out, “whether you want to admit it or not.”

Apollo shook his head, but he was smiling again… although a little apologetically now.

“I’m sorry, but I really have to go now,” he said. “To check out the elite level before I take our new doctor back to the _Galactica_.”

Serina pulled a face. “Good luck. I assume your reaction will be similar to mine.”

“What do you mean?” he frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You will,” she promised darkly.

He gave her a sharp look. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said, as if suspecting many things already and wanting to figure out her true alliances. Then his expression softened again. “Well, go and pack your things. It will take a day until the formalities runt heir circle, but I expect that you will be able to relocate to the _Galactica_ tomorrow. I’ll have a seat reserved for you on the regular shuttle.”

He gave her a half-salute and strode down the companionway, briskly and with determination. Serina looked after him with a wry smile. He no longer seemed so aloof and detached. In fact, he showed definite interest for Boxey, at the very least… and, to a lesser level, perhaps even for her.

That offered possibilities. Possibilities that she’d have to explore very carefully.


	7. Chapter 5 - The 'Galactica'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As already mentioned, I work with the original concept of Boxey not being Serina’s natural son. And remember that Patroclus is actually Dr. Paye from the pilot.  
> Corporal Kreon is the character named Komma in the series. I found the name very stupid and rechristened him. The idea of Taurean _troikas_ was originally conceived by fellow BSG writer Karen, although never really used for any of her stories.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***   
**CHAPTER 05 – THE _GALACTICA_**

The dispatch came from the _Galactica_ on the next day indeed, and Chella guided Serina and Boxey to the shuttle bay personally, glad to have two people less to care for. The shuttle pilot, a dark-skinned Libran woman by the name of Deitra, was a survivor of the _Atlantia_ : tough, funny and not the least frightened by their current, dire situation. She and Serina hit off at once, and even Boxey seemed to take to her at first sight.

Her co-pilot was a sweet-faced, blue-eyed girl from Sagittara, with long, shiny hair in the colour of ripe wheat that reached down to her waist. She was called Brie (although that could impossibly be her true name), and the two of them appeared to be supremely content with their jobs.

“Granted, we’re not considered to be equals to the Viper pilots, but it’s _flying_ nonetheless,” Deitra explained. “Besides, without us traffic between the ships would be nigh impossible. One can’t ferry people – or wares, for that matter, although those have become something of a rarity in these days – from one ship to another in the cockpit of a Viper.”

“Of course, the fact that the Commander’s daughter is a shuttle pilot herself helped improving our reputation,” Brie added, laughing.”

“Lieutenant Athena?” Serina, who knew everything that had been accessible for the press about the Adamans, asked in surprise. “I thought she was a bridge officer.”

“Well, she is,” Deitra agreed. “In fact, she’s the right hand of Lieutenant Omega, who’s Colonel Tigh’s chief aide. But she’s also an experienced shuttle pilot who regularly flies her father wherever the Commander is needed. There are so very few of us left,” she added, suddenly deadly serious, “most of us must pull two jobs. There are no passengers aboard a Battlestar.”

The casual remark gave Serina an unexpected cause to worry. She might have been allowed to relocate to the _Galactica_ for Boxey’s sake, but that didn’t mean that she’d be able to _stay_ there after Boxey had been brought back to his former strength. To be able to stay aboard the Battlestar, she needed to contribute – and she was willing to do so, within reasonable limits.

The problem was though – she didn’t really have any useful skills that would buy her a permanent place on the _Galactica_. She was a well-trained newswoman, sure, but as such, she could only hope for a status aboard the Com-Tel Ship – if she ever found a way to win _Sire_ Anton’s favour, which was doubtful. She might be a celebrity, but a rather low-key one. Neither her origins, nor her former career would have been enough to impress the old man, and _Sire_ Anton – unlike Uri – was _not_ known to fall for a pretty face.

Once she’d been a society girl who’d received a high-end education common among the lesser Caprican nobility. Unfortunately, social graces were of little use on a Battlestar, and without the contacts of her late mother, she couldn’t hope to find employment with the new _Quorum_. Not that she’d really want to. Working as a lowly secretary or something similar for the same people in whose houses she’d been going in and out as a popular party guest would have been deeply humiliating.

Her computer skills were fairly good for a layperson, but she had no doubt that the military had experts much better trained in that area than she was. Consequently, she couldn’t hope to find work in the Digital Archives of the _Galactica_ , either. Besides, they’d probably prefer to have someone they trusted around sensitive information, and a newswoman would be the last person they’d want there.

Her best chance seemed to be to use her considerable social skills and find a patron among the ranking officers of the Battlestar. Clearly, Patroclus was no longer interested in patronizing her; or, to be more accurate, he’d seemed to find Boxey bothersome from the beginning. She couldn’t blame him for that; he’d been a bachelor all his life, and children were of no interest for him.

It was a shame, really. The two of them were such a good match, and the informal relationship between them served her purposes well. She wouldn’t Seal with Patroclus, even if he’d been willing to do so. Now that she was free again, due to the death of Boreas, she wanted someone _solid_ to Seal with. Someone _safe_. Preferably a man of good breeding and with enough power and influence to secure her a comfortable life. A man beyond his first youth, who could value her rare beauty and would cherish and protect her as the rare gem that she was.

The fact that the Destruction had wiped out the upper class of Colonial aristocracy actually served her long-time goals quite nicely. No true patrician would ever consider Sealing with a woman born of a messaliance, no matter how skilled or beautiful she might be. Now, however, the second line would rise to power as soon as the new government was formed. So many noble houses were lost forever that her blood, albeit mixed with that of a commoner, would still be considered good enough.

For starters, though, she’d have to build out her net of contacts carefully, beginning with the highest ranks. That meant the Adamans who, at the moment, represented the strongest power within the Fleet. Commander Adama was the only member of the old _Quorum_ who’d escaped the Destruction; plus he had the only surviving Battleship at his disposal. Of course, Commander Adama was an old man… too old and probably too suspicious and experienced to fall for her. But there were always his children.

She’d already made a good start with drawing the interest of Apollo – to Boxey, at least, if not to herself… not _yet_. She’d be able to work along those lines, having already won his sympathy for taking in an orphaned child instead of her own dead one. The young captain was willing to cover for her, even helped her to get away from the _Rising Star_ that offered no true perspective. She’d have to move slowly and carefully, but the path showed promises.

However, she needed multiple contacts to the _de facto_ ruling family of the Fleet. And Deitra and Brie, who were apparently friends with the Commander’s daughter, could help her with that. All she had to do was to befriend them – even though under normal circumstances, back in her old life, she’d never had socialized with women from the military. That was decidedly un-feminine and low-class. But things being what they were, she couldn’t afford to be choosy.

“So,” she said, taking a deep breath and giving them a conspiratory smile that signalled an acceptance that she didn’t really feel, “what are you lady pilots doing when you’re _not_ on duty… should such miracles happen at all.”

The two burst ought in laughter, although Brie, being a Sagittarian and probably accordingly suppressed in her teenaged years, showed definite signs of embarrassment.

“Same thing the flyboys do,” Deitra replied with a decidedly un-ladylike grin. “Drinking, gambling, cruising… only that we chase the pretty boys, while they’re always chasing the girls.”

“Those interests even meet sometimes,” Brie added, blushing a little, “although most Viper pilots prefer civilian women who can’t catch them exaggerating when they’re boasting about their so-called heroic deeds.”

Serina wondered briefly which Viper pilot she might be fancying. She was a pretty little thing of a doll-faced innocence mature men often found irresistible. Unfortunately, such girls were usually stupid enough to pine away after brash young warriors of their own age and have their little hearts broken by them.

“Never mind her,” Deitra said with a knowing look. “She’s suffering from the Starbuck effect. We’ve all gone through that particular phase; it’s painful, but it never lasts.”

Serina was a little bewildered by that, but she chose _not_ to ask any questions; not yet. Showing too much eagerness to know things often led to the opposite results. They’d tell her everything soon enough. She _was_ a celebrity, after all, even though a minor one, and young girls liked to hang out with celebrities. Her time would come.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
When the shuttle docked in the _Galactica_ ’s landing bay, the two pilots took their leave from Serina and Boxey and went on with their duties. They didn’t have to find their way alone, though; right after departing the shuttle, they were greeted by a stocky, round-faced young Taurean warrior with short, springy hair.

“Corporal Kreon,” he introduced himself, “from Central Data Services. Captain Apollo sent me to show you to your assigned quarters, ma’am… and then to Life Station, so that the doctors can check on both you and the boy.”

“On _me_?” Serina asked in surprise. “But I’m completely healthy… and Boxey isn’t sick, either, just exhausted and malnourished.”

The young warrior shrugged. “Orders, ma’am. All newcomers have to go through a basic health check. We can’t afford any pathogens to be introduced to the troops. We’re the only defence the Fleet still has.”

That certainly made sense, even though the last thing Serina wanted right now was to run into Patroclus by accident. But there was no way to avoid that odd chance, and so she followed the corporal down one of the long, identical iron-grey corridors that, as the man explained, used to be the wing where unmarried flag officers once lived.

Right now, the only flag lieutenant still alive was Bridge Officer Omega, and as the Colonel’s chief aide, he was entitled to have better quarters anyway, the corporal added, so the single rooms in this corridor had been vacated for passengers, as long as they remained on the Battlestar.

“Most warriors live in the barracks anyway, as we’re under constant alert,” he said. “Only those few with families have quarters of their own.”

“And where are _you_ living?” Serina asked. It never harmed to show some interest for the little man; they found it flattering, and she might need a favour from someone who worked at Central Data Services one day.

The corporal grinned. “Actually, I live on the _Alcestys_ with my two wives. I’m only aboard the _Galactica_ during my duty shifts… not that those weren’t long enough.”

For a moment, Serina was a bit shocked; then she remembered that the man was a Taurus. He seemed awfully young to have two spouses already, but again, as a rule Taureans married as soon as they reached legal maturity and usually lived together before that already.

Speaking of which, the man’s name reminded her of something – or rather someone – else.

“Forgive me,” she said, “but are you not, by accident, the son of a man named Bengun?”

The young man stared at her in shock. 

“You know my father?” he asked, desperately eager to learn something about the fate of his family. “Do you know what happened to him?”

Serina shook her head apologetically. “I don’t, I’m truly sorry. We spent a few _sectares_ in the same emergency shelter, right after the bombing of Caprica, but got separated during the evacuation. I never learned what happened to him… or to his spouses.”

“So my mothers were with him as well?” despite the lack of actual good news, Corporal Kreon seemed to perk up with new hope. “Then I’m sure they’ve managed somehow. Together, the three of them are practically invincible. Thank you, _Siress_ Serina, for bringing me word about them.”

“Careful with the titles, Corporal,” Serina warned him, smiling. “I’m just a commoner, like you.”

The round visage of the young man widened even more in a slow, sly grin.

“Somehow, I have difficulties to believe _that_ ,” he said, “but thank you nonetheless. Now I know that I can at least start looking for my family. Should you ever need any help from me, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I won’t,” Serina replied, and she meant it. She was a woman who always collected her debts.

They reached the quarters assigned to Serina and Boxey, and Kreon showed them how to key in the opening code.

“The empty quarters always run with standard codes,” he explained, “but now that you’ve been officially registered as the inhabitant, you can change the code for whatever you want. These quarters are fairly small, but considering how crowded all ships are, I’m afraid they’ll have to do.”

“I’m sure they’ll do just fine,” Serina smiled at him in the manner of a benevolent aristocrat. “Thank you, Corporal, for your help.”

“My pleasure, ma’am,” Corporal Kreon recognized the dismissal and left them alone.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Taking a deep breath, Serina entered their new home. As Kreon had said, it wasn’t much – but at least it was hers, on her own right… courtesy of Captain Apollo. It had a desk, a military issue locker, made of the same grey metal as apparently everything else on board (at least everything else she’d got to see so far), and a bunk bed replacing the regular military cot, with the likely purpose for Boxey sleeping in the upped bed. Two slide doors led to a tiny kitchenette and to a turbowash cabin, respectively, the latter containing a turboflush unit and a sonic shower – and that was it. 

Not much indeed, compared even with the modest comfort of Patroclus’ quarters aboard the _Rising Star_ , but it would have to do – for now. Enough for a beginning. Everything else would require careful planning on her side.

At least the computer unit on her desk was a top-of-the-art military model; something a junior officer serving aboard a Battlestar would need to perform his or her duties properly. The blinking symbols on screen signalled several messages waiting for her, so she put Boxey to bed and sat down to check them.

One was, predictably enough, from Captain Apollo, welcoming her on board. One a note from the quartermaster, telling her where she can receive her food chips; apparently, food was sternly rationed aboard the _Galactica_ , which impressed her very much. _Sire_ Uri and his so-called friends could have learned from the military about priorities. The military clearly wasn’t using their status to gain personal favours. 

A third message was from Life Station, reminding her that she had to appear, together with Boxey, for the standard physical examination, mandatory for everyone who’d moved aboard the Battlestar. The message was signed by someone called Doctor Salik, presumably the head doctor of the ship, with a short afternote that she could take her time as they would need to treat the sick and wounded people first.

That was fine with Serina, as she didn’t want to run into Patroclus right away. So she went to the quartermaster’s office first, where she received the so-called food chips: small, rectangular plastic chips that entitled her and Boxey to three full meals a day. People could take their meals either in the Officers' Club or in he Rejuvenation Centre, the man explained, as the same food was being served in both places, exactly as many rations being programmed into the food dispensers as people were on board the ship. The machines kept tab on the people already served, so that cheating wouldn’t be possible.

Serina wished there were a system like this aboard the _Rising Star_.

The only things one could get without food chips were the drinks and sweets in the Officers’ Club; however, for _those_ , one had to pay in real Colonial _cubits_. Not having any currency left, Serina considered herself fortunate when she ran into Lieutenants Deitra and Brie again, who invited her for a drink or two.

“It’s a true relief to meet someone a little more… _refined_ ,” Deitra, who’d studied at the Libran Academy of Fine Arts for a couple of _yahrens_ before giving up the career of a singer for that of a pilot, explained. “Besides, being seen with a celebrity always heightens one’s reputation.”

And Brie, whose true name was apparently Briavael, nodded in agreement.

Serina accepted the invitation gladly. She wasn’t much of a drinker, but a cup of _ambrosa_ , after one hadn’t had any for _sectares_ , was a nice thing for a change. Besides, this was the only way for her to gain access to the Officers’ Club, which was an important element of her plans for the future. The future, for quite some time, will be shaped by the military. So she needed close ties with the military to actually _have_ a future.

She could practically _feel_ the interested looks of the young pilots on her skin as she followed Deitra and Brie to the “brown” side of the Officers’ Club, marked so because of the colour of said pilots’ uniforms. There seemed to be a clear division between “brown” and “blue”, as bridge officers were apparently called; also a great deal of obvious competition.

Deitra ordered drinks for them all, and for the following _centare_ or so, she and Brie entertained Serina with hilarious stories about their fellow pilots… meaning the Viper pilots, that is, who were all young males, it seemed, and - with the exception of a few of them (like that fat pilot accompanying Captain Apollo aboard the _Rising Star_ ) - quite dashing.

“Captain Apollo and his wingman are the best of all, of course,” Deitra explained. “But there’s also Lieutenant Boomer…” her eyes became a bit misty, and Serina suppressed a smile. Clearly, Deitra was more than interested in that particular pilot. Remembering the handsome young warrior with the slight Leonid accent, Serina could understand her. She wouldn’t go for a simple warrior, but she guessed that he’d be good enough for someone like Deitra.

“Are there no female pilots aboard the _Galactica_ , then?” she asked in surprise. “None at all? As far as I know other Battlestars have trained women to fly Vipers for quite some time. And Commander Caine’s daughter even had her own squadron.”

“Commander Caine could never deny his little princess anything,” a cool, supremely cultured voice said. “Sheba only needed to widen her eyes a little to get whatever she wanted.”

Serina glanced up with interest, as such inside information was always precious for a newswoman. She saw a stunningly beautiful young woman in a silver-and-blue bridge uniform approaching their table. The lady officer was slender and strong like steel, her pale face framed by long, wavy mahogany hair that made exotic contrast with her pale blue eyes; a contrast emphasized by high cheekbones and a wide, sensuous mouth. She could have been the centre of every festival like a queen; yet she was clearly a warrior, with a lieutenant’s rank pins on her collar.

“Athena!” Deitra smiled up at her. “Come and sit with us!”

Serina could barely believe her good luck. _This_ was Lieutenant Athena? The sister of Captain Apollo, the apple of their father’s eye? The very person she’d hoped to meet and befriend eventually, to open herself a way to the highest circles of what had remained from Caprican society? Truly, this must have been her lucky day!

“I don’t want to impose myself upon you,” Athena was saying in the meantime. “I see you girls already have company.”

“No, no, Lieutenant, do sit with us!” Serina said hurriedly. “We aren’t discussing anything you couldn’t hear. We haven’t known each other long enough for _that_ ,” she added with a conspiratory wink and a smile.

“Athena,” the commander’s daughter corrected, smiling back at her - a smile that transferred her stern, patrician face to that of a young girl. “I’m off-duty now,” and she sat down with them indeed.

“This is Serina,” Deitra introduced her. “We’ve just met. We brought her over from the _Rising Star_ this morning.”

“My pleasure, Serina,” Athena nodded. “I’ve seen you on Transmission. Your report from the destruction of Caprica was… quite dramatic. It must have been terrifying for you.”

Serina tried not to be insulted. She knew Athena was just trying to be friendly, but it irked her to no end that the commander’s daughter obviously thought all civilians were headless _gallidians_ , unable to face any danger without protection. Still, this was _not_ the time to correct the military’s view on things.

“It was… extremely unpleasant,” was all she said. “For all of us.”

“More so as you had to fear for your child, too!” Brie added, wide-eyed with amazement and compassion. Apparently, _she_ was quite capable of admire civilians if they showed courage. “It’s a good thing Captain Apollo found you on the _Star_ and arranged a transfer for you. Imagine living with a small child in one of those terrible barracks on the lower decks!”

“Has he?” Athena took her drink from the waiter and eyed Serina warily over the rim of her cup. “How came _that_ to happen?”

Serina felt her inner alarms go off at once. She understood that she’d have to be very careful with the commander’s daughter. Clearly, under that beautiful interior was an equally stunning mind; the inherited intellect of all Adamans.

“He fell in love with my son,” she replied with a shrug and a smile. “I asked him to help me with Boxey, who refused to eat, and he… he arranged for him and me to be relocated to the _Galactica_.”

“My brother’s always been a little sentimental when it came to children,” Athena said, but not unkindly. “I’m glad that you’re here, though. We girls on the _Galactica_ need some other company than just our fellow pilots. It can be unnerving sometimes if all you can talk about are Vipers and laser blasters.”

“A bit more finesse is always good,” Deitra added, grinning. Then she looked at Athena in curiosity. “You seem a little bitter lately, though. What’s wrong? Trouble in Elysium?”

Athena sighed. “Sort of. I’m not sure. Well, right after the Destruction… Starbuck asked me to Seal with him.”

“And wouldn’t the Commander just _love_ that?” Deitra commented cynically. “As much as he likes Starbuck as Apollo’s friend, I’m not sure he’d like him as your husband. He’s an orphan of unknown origins, after all; not someone the head of a Great House would want to marry into his family.”

“You don’t really think _that_ would have stopped me, do you?” Athena asked, with a glint of steel in her eyes.

“Certainly not,” Deitra grinned. “I know you too well for that. But _something_ has stopped you, hadn’t it? There hasn’t been a Sealing announced.”

“No,” Athena agreed tiredly. “I refused to Seal with him… for the time being anyway. I’d just lost Mother and Zack and our home… It was all so fresh in my mind still, I just couldn’t think of Sealing right then.”

“So you’ve broken up?” Brie asked, perhaps a bit more hopefully than it would have been appropriate. Serina remembered Deitra’s throwaway remark about Brie suffering from 'the Starbuck effect' and suppressed a smile. Perhaps Brie had a crush on this Starbuck character, too, and was now hoping for a chance?

But Athena shattered her hopes at once. “No, we haven’t. We’re just going through a… a complicated phase right now. I mean, I’m still _grieving_ … we all are! But sooner or later, we’ll get our act together and perhaps even make Father understand that blood isn’t as all-important as he likes to believe. Not anymore. Not after the Destruction.”

“Well, good luck with _that_!” Deitra, who was a pure-blooded Libran and thus didn’t follow the sometimes narrow-minded Kobolian beliefs, said dryly.

“I wouldn’t put my hopes too high if I were you,” Serina murmured. “Caprican aristocracy is very settled in their ways… I’m the living proof for _that_. I’ve been punished all my life for the fact that my mother made the mistake of Sealing with a commoner.”

Athena frowned for a moment; then understanding dawned on her flawless face.

“Oh, right,” she said. “You’re the daughter of _Siress_ Lyra, aren’t you?”

It seemed than not even the daughters of the greatest Caprican Houses were completely adverse to gossip; a complication Serina hadn’t taken under consideration. She wondered whether Athena knew about her liaison with Patroclus, too. Hopefully, she didn’t. _That_ would have been the end of Serina’s hopes. Caprican nobles had a highly hypocritical double standard by which they judged men and women and their possible – and _acceptable_ – choices.

“In the eyes of nobility, I’ve never been more than just the daughter of a commoner,” she replied bitterly.

Athena patted her hand in a sudden wave of female solidarity.

“Believe me; they don’t even see their own daughters as the equals of their sons,” she said darkly. “Seven millennia of progress, and some things don’t seem to have changed since the Era of Darkness. But this will end. It _has_ to. There are so very few of us left, we cannot allow the old prejudices to divide us again.”

Which all sounded very good in theory, but Serina doubted that theories would help her much, should her past become common knowledge. Still, for the moment, things were developing in a promising direction.

“I hope you are right,” was all the answer she gave.

“So do I,” Athena replied with disarming honesty that showed that she wasn’t as naïve as she might seem; then she looked at her wrist chrono and sighed. “Well, I must go; my break is over, and Colonel Tigh would skin me alive if I came late to work.”

“He’s just so hard on you because he’ll prove that he doesn’t treat you differently than he’d treat any other bridge officer,” Deitra laughed.

“Not half as hard as Father used to be on Apollo when he was first assigned to the _Galactica_ ,” Athena grinned. “They’re both so afraid of being accused of favouritism that they regularly made our lives to Hades.”

“Colonel Tigh is the commander’s oldest friend,” Brie explained, after Athena had left. “They used to be wingmates, and the Colonel held the Commander’s children on his arm on their naming ceremony; _including_ Athena.”

“Which, I’m sure, doesn’t make Athena’s life any easier,” Serina commented. “They’ll always see her as her father’s baby girl. That must be suffocating.”

“I’m sure it is sometimes,” Deitra agreed, “But Athena can deal with it; she’s strong. She knows what she wants and she’s ready to fight for it, no matter the costs.”

“Do you think she and Starbuck will get Sealed eventually?” Brie asked with barely veiled jealousy in her voice.

Deitra thought about that for a _micron_ ; then she shook her head.

“No, I don’t think so. As much as I wish happiness for Athena, she could never tame Starbuck enough for that. No-one could.”

“But he’s proposed,” Brie said uncertainly.

“You heard it; it was right after Cimtar,” Deitra said. “None of us were thinking clearly at that time. We all tried to hang on to someone – or something – when everything was falling apart around us, just to stay sane. I don’t really believe that Starbuck had even thought about what Sealing would mean. He just wanted something _safe_ , an anchor to keep him from drifting away. Athena was right to refuse him. It wouldn’t have worked.”

“It still can work out,” Brie was reluctant to admit it, but honest enough to take that possibility under consideration.

“No,” Deitra said. “No, because Starbuck won’t ask her again.”

“You can’t know that!” Brie protested.

“Oh yes, I can,” Deitra said grimly. “It’s an orphan thing. They don’t take rejection kindly.” Then she rose. “Unfortunately, we have to go, too. We have another flight in twenty _centons_ , and it would do us no good to make _Siress_ Tinia wait. She’s eager to return to the _Starry Diadem_.”

“ _Sire_ Geller’s ship?” Brie frowned. “But that’s a luxury liner, with its own civilian space shuttles. Why couldn’t she command one of those?”

“Because that wouldn’t make her seem important enough,” Deitra replied cynically. “Come on, girl, we must go!”

She paid the waiter, and then both she and Brie left the Officers’ Club, followed by a very thoughtful Serina.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
She returned to her new quarters, picked up Boxey and took him to the Rejuvenation Centre that apparently also served as the mess hall for passengers and enlisted personnel. They got some primaries from the food dispenser, and Serina only had to remind Boxey of Captain Apollo’s warning to make the boy eat them… albeit a little reluctantly.

It seemed that there were other civilians aboard the Battlestar, after all; mostly sick and injured people relocated from other ships, medical personnel, the families of the military who’d managed to get out of their home colonies and were now reunited with their husbands, sons, daughters or wives. Several women instantly took a liking to Boxey and came to their table to talk, and so Serina learned, to her surprise, that some of the Viper maintenance crew was female as well. One of them, a head technician named Jenivere, whom the others simply called Jenny, offered Boxey some sticky sweets called mushies, and the boy perked up at once.

“No more than one piece after a meal,” Serine warned the child sternly. “Or else you’ll ruin your appetite.”

Jenny seemed quite unconcerned about that. “Boys will be boys,” she said. “One will always have to force them to eat their primaries, but they’ll always be willing to eat as many sweets as they can lay their hands on. Have you registered him with the Child Care Centre?”

Serina looked at the other woman blankly. “The _what_?”

“We have a school of some sort aboard the _Galactica_ ,” Jenny explained, “since most parents are either warriors or bridge and maintenance personnel here. Child Care Centre takes the children of single parents for working hours, beyond the educational period. What shift do you work?”

“None yet,” Serina admitted glumly. “I’ve just been relocated from the _Rising Star_. Unfortunately, I don’t think they’d have such a big need for a newswoman here.”

“Perhaps not,” Jenny agreed, “but I happen to know that they’re looking for people to work for Central Data Services. They’ve lost several people and haven’t managed to find the right replacements just yet. As a trained newswoman, you wouldn’t have any problems with computers, would you?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Serina replied. “Do you believe they’d take me? I’m a civilian, after all, and a newswoman at that. There might be sensitive data there…”

“They’ll probably have you sign a declaration of secrecy,” Jenny shrugged, “but they _need_ people there. And _you_ need a job. So, what harm would come from giving it a try?”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
That was certainly very true, and so after they’d returned to their quarters and Boxey went back to bed – the recent days had taken their toll on him – Serina decided to follow the head technician’s well-meant (not to mention practical) advice. She logged in to his computer, changed the password and got an appointment from Life Station for her own physical and for a thorough examination of the boy.

Then she spent some time on figuring out Lieutenant Athena’s intercom contact number… and those of Deitra and Jenny, too, just in case. One had to maintain one’s contacts very carefully. Those women seemed to know their way around the Battlestar; and they approached her on their own. That was always an advantage.

Having saved the contact numbers, she went on to take a look at the employment status of Central Data Services. As Jenny had said, they’d indeed had several casualties at Cimtar, which meant they had vacancies now. Some of those vacancies still hadn’t been filled. 

So far, so good. Working with data was something she, as a trained newswoman, was actually _qualified_ to do. Yes, it was dull work, not suited to make her a known face aboard ship, but at least it was _work_ , and it would make her independent to a certain extent. Being employed by Central Data Services would mean that she could stay on board without needing someone’s protection; a protection she could lose at a whim and probably would have to pay for the usual way… something she’d have preferred to avoid, if she could. The parting with Patroclus had been humiliating enough.

She checked out the requirements to get the job and smiled. There was nothing she couldn’t have done with her eyes closed and one hand bound behind her back. In truth, she was grossly _overqualified_ for the job, but considering that they needed people with at least _some_ qualification, she had little doubt that they would take her.

She downloaded the application form and filled it out, careful to add all her credentials but omit the names of her former patrons. One could never know who was deciding about employment; or how the remaining members of the aristocracy stood to each other. And _Sire_ Uri did have his enemies. Especially among the military, as he’d used to be President Adar’s right hand in cutting military budget and orchestrating the Renaissance.

She sent the application to the head of Central Data Services. Then she looked up the intercom contact number of Corporal Kreon and sent him a brief request to lay in a good word for her if he could. She hated to ask favours, especially from Taurean simpletons – Kreon seemed to lack the sharp wit and personal courage of Bengun completely – but she couldn’t be choosy right now. Too much was at risk. She _needed_ this job.

Besides, she owed the parents of the man a great deal. Without Bengun, she couldn’t have managed at the shelter. And it wasn’t so as if she’d have to socialize with the corporal anyway. Fortunately, he and his wives lived on an agroship. It seemed highly unlikely that she’d ever visit one.

She also filled in a request with the Child Care Centre to have Boxey registered for pre-school education, having the boy listed as her son. Later she’d try to fake the proper birth certificate – or to officially adopt the child, whichever would seem easier to secure her the right to raise him. She very much doubted that even Child Care would give felgercarb about it, as long as they had one less orphan to worry about. Not when the child in question already got accepted by a parent.

She allowed herself an ironic smile. Just a few _sectares_ ago, she’d had the promising outlook to become an extremely successful career woman, unhindered by family obligations and – hopefully – on her way to fame. Now her wildest hope was to become a single parent with a dull job; one allowed to keep her child and her bleak little quarters. 

No, it didn’t look promising at all. But she’d survived, and she had a child again – and _that_ fact somehow made even a dull life worth living.


	8. Chapter 6 - Unexpected Chances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that canonically Cassiopeia was treated right after her arrival to the _Galactica_. I’m taking some poetic licence here to get the story into rolling.   
> _Coda_ , according to Karen, is a small, deep red flower serving as the basics of a lot of medicines.  
> Also, Art Director John Chilberg originally wanted to have mullions in the big window, because he thought it looked unrealistic to have such a large window area unsupported structurally. However, Glen Larson liked the open, unsupported look better, so the mullions had to go. Chilberg won his battle for the pillars inside the bridge, though. In any case, I agree with him about the structural necessities and gave the window the mullions back. *g*

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 06 – UNEXPECTED CHANCES**

In the next morning, Serina was preparing Boxey for his appointment with Life Station, when the doorbell rang. A sweet-faced young woman, presumably from one of the _agrist_ colonies, stood at her threshold, with a corporal’s rank pins on her blue-and-silver bridge uniform.

“Flight Controller Rigel,” she introduced herself. “Colonel Tigh sent me to show you to Core Command. He wishes to speak with you on the Commander’s behalf.”

Serina was a little shocked by that piece of news. She knew Colonel Tigh from hearsay, of course – everyone did. Tigh was a legend of his own, almost as much as the Commander himself. He’d been through many battles with his Commander, first as Adama’s wingman, then as his aide, and was famous of his brutal honesty. _That_ had cost him the command of a Battlestar at least once, it was said. But - unlike Adama - he was nigh invisible; few people had ever met him, save from those under his command, and no-one from the press. Ever.

“I’d be glad to do the Colonel the favour,” Serina said, “but I’ve got an appointment with Life Station for my son, and I don’t think they’d be able to reschedule, considering how much work they have right now.”

“What time?” Rigel glanced at her wrist chrono. Serina gave her the exact time, and she smiled. “Oh, that will be all right then. You’ll be able to keep your appointment. The Colonel is a man of very few words.”

“But where can I leave Boxey in the meantime?” Serina asked in concern.

“Oh, I’m sure Corporal Kalliope will be happy to look after him for a while,” Rigel said. “She’s good with kids; used to be the oldest of six siblings; and she’ll be off-duty as soon as I relieve him. Besides, as I said, it won’t take long.”

Serina was not that sure about the whole affair, but she really had no choice. So she took Boxey’s hand and followed Corporal Rigel to the command deck of the _Galactica_ , to see what the Commander’s second-in-command might want from her.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
This was Serina’s first direct glance at Core Command, basically the bridge of the Battlestar, and she had to admit that the sight was sheer overwhelming. Alone the _size_ of it would have made anyone breathless, and there was also so much to _see_ there: the rotating command post, the monitoring stations, the helmsman’s console, the flight controller’s post, medical and communications stations, and so on. Not to mention a window area so large it had to be supported by mullions, which offered a real time view at the surrounding space. The interior of the immense, oval-shaped chamber was painted in that drab, military-issue colour known as “Battlestar grey”, but that didn’t make the place any less stunning. In fact, it helped to focus everyone’s attention on the colourful monitors displaying necessary information about various things she couldn’t even begin to understand.

A short, elegantly greying, dark-skinned man with the classical features only seen in very ancient Libran families stood at the railing of the rotating command post, the rank pins of a colonel on his silver-and-blue uniform. His dark eyes were watching the bridge chrono sternly and only eased a bit when Rigel, Athena and several other bridge officers came in, _microns_ before the bell signalling the change of watches would sound.

“Omega,” he said in a deep, somewhat hoarse voice often heard among Librans, “take over for me. I need to do something for the Commander. It won’t take long.”

A tall, dark-haired flag lieutenant rose from the central monitoring station and stepped up to the command post. Serina recognized him at once, although they’d never actually met in person. It was Orpheus, a younger son from the House of Lares – one of the richest, most influential patrician families of Caprica. Not that _that_ would have counted after the Destruction, of course. But he was well-known for having Sealed with a commoner. It had been the newest scandal among Caprican nobility, even though his wife had come from a respectable family. 

To general surprise, his family had accepted his low-born bride without any protests, it was said. A rare thing for Caprican aristocracy; but then again, he was the younger son of a younger son, so he could afford to be more… liberal than his older brothers. Still they had been all over the news a few _yahrens_ ago, from their Sealing to the birth of their children. Serina wondered if anyone else of the family had survived. By the haunted looks of the man they probably hadn’t.

Colonel Tigh gestured her to follow him to the small conference area, separated from the main room by a beautiful, translucent star map.

“Serina, daughter of Lyra, I presume?” he began without preamble.

Serina nodded. “Colonel. What is this all about?”

“I’ve seen your application for a job with Central Data Services,” at her surprise, he gave her the ghost of a smile. “Well, you sent it to the head of Services, and that happens to be me. As Commander Adama’s chief aide, I am the one responsible for data storage and archiving. In any case, I’ve looked up your credentials. They’re impressive.”

“Thank you,” she murmured demurely, because there was definitely a _but_ coming.

“In fact, they’re way too good for Central Data Services, and we both know that,” he continued.

Serina started getting nervous. “It doesn’t matter, Colonel. I _need_ the job. I’ve got a dependant, a small boy of six _yahrens_ , and…”

“I didn’t say I’d reject your application,” he interrupted. “But I want you to work for me – for _us_ – in a different capacity.”

“Which would be?” Serina asked suspiciously.

Tigh sighed. ”We’re on an epic journey through the great unknown, heading towards a mythical destination. This hasn’t been done since our ancestors left Kobol, millennia ago. The Commander wants our journey to be documented in minute detail, so that future generations – assuming there _would_ be any – would know what we have done and what it cost us.”

“You truly believe that there _is_ a planet Earth?” Serina asked doubtfully. “That one day, we’ll find the world of our origins and be reunited with our long-lost brethren?”

“I don’t know; nor do I truly care,” Tigh admitted with a shrug. “For all that I’m the son of a priestess and spent my childhood in the Old Temple of Arbor, I’ve turned out quite the agnostic, I’m afraid. But I believe in _Adama_ ; I always have, and he never disappointed me. Whether Earth truly exists or not, our people need _hope_. Adama is the only one who can give them _that_. The only one who can hold our people together.”

Serina nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Yes, I can see that.”

“Good,” Tigh said. “Then you can perhaps also see why documenting our journey would be so important. We’ve lost everything that belonged to our past, and whether we’re going to have a future is still uncertain. All we have is our present. We _need_ new traditions; we need proof that we’re indeed making _some_ progress, no matter how slow it might be, for people to be able to go on.”

“But isn’t that what IFB is doing?” Serina asked.

Tigh shook his head. “No. IFB is building a cult of hero worship around our warriors; not that they wouldn’t deserve it. They deserve _that_ \- and more. But what our people will need in the long run is the truth. Small facts, put together to make up the big picture with painstaking accuracy. You have the qualification to do exactly that. Do you have the will, too?”

“I can certainly try,” Serina said, still a bit doubtful.

“It won’t be as spectacular and satisfying as working for IFB,” Tigh warned. “For the first _yahrens_ no-one would even _know_ what you’re doing here. And we can’t offer much in exchange: a place to live, and a salary that’s slightly better than it would if you worked for Central Data Services. That’s all we can do.”

Serina gave the offer some thought. From a merely professional point of view, this wasn’t what she’d hoped for. Despite the payment difference, Central Data Services would offer her better chances to gain access to all kinds of information she’d want. Perhaps that was the exact reason why they’d rather create this position for her: to utilize her talents without letting a nosy newswoman too close to sensitive information. She had to give them that: they were handing this very shrewdly.

On the other hand, this position would grant her access to social circles she probably wouldn’t be able to reach. Working for the Commander directly, even if people didn’t understand _what_ it was that she did, meant an immediate rise in importance and reputation… plus there would be the inevitable chances to meet the _de facto_ ruling family on a semi-regular basis, without going great lengths to make it look casual or accidental.

Yes, the social advantages definitely outweighed the professional setback. So the decision was an easy one.

“If I can have an office where I could work, even if it’s only a walk-in locker, I’ll gladly take the job,” she said slowly. “My quarters aren’t exactly fitting for such work. Especially not with a small child around.”

“Of course,” Tigh replied, clearly having taken that aspect of the job under consideration. “The Commander’s personal yeoman, sadly, died at Cimtar, and since there won’t be any correspondence to do in the foreseeable future, he won’t need a new one. You can use the yeoman’s office in the Commander’s anteroom. I’ll send someone to show you the way – _after_ you’ve had your appointment with Life Station.”

It was clearly a dismissal if Serina ever head one. So she thanked the Colonel for everything and left, understanding that there weren’t many things aboard the _Galactica_ the Commander’s aide would _not_ know about. That was an important thing to remember.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
She picked up Boxey, who was having an animated conversation with Corporal Kalliope (who seemed awfully young to be in service already) about _daggits_. Apparently, the corporal’s father had used to breed them, which meant for Boxey that she had to be a nice person. She also seemed to enjoy being with small children; another thing Serina made a mental note of, in future uses when she might need a babysitter.

She asked for directions and took Boxey to Life station. A harried-looking med tech created medical files for them, as - like most civilians - they hadn’t been registered in the Battlestar’s medical archives. Again, Serina found it better to give his own son’s data, in the hope she’d be able to correct the birth _yahren_ later. If not, that shouldn’t be such a big problem, either. Small children _ought_ to look malnourished after having spent sectares in an emergency shelter, after all.

When all administrative steps were made, Boxey was taken to one of the examination rooms by a middle-aged, balding doctor with a round, deeply lined face, whom all medical personnel seemed to respect a great deal. He must have been Dr. Salik, Serina decided; and he was clearly used to be obeyed without being asked any questions. Such was his natural authority that Boxey went with him without the usual protests when manhandled by strangers.

The med tech asked Serina to wait in the locker area, as Dr. Paye was still with another patient. Serina wasn’t particularly excited about meeting Patroclus so soon, but that couldn’t be helped. Besides, they would have run into each other sooner or later. And in any case, Patroclus was a fair and discreet man. He might not wish to patronize her any longer, but he wouldn’t throw any stones into her way, either.

So she did as she’d been asked, peeking into the examination room carefully, as she was curious who the other patient might be.

Well, it certainly wasn’t anything she’d have expected to see aboard a Battlestar.

She spotted Patroclus first in the brightly-lit room room. Working gently, the doctor was positioning the broken arm of his patient inside a transparent cylindrical tubing that was connected to a larger, more impressive set of medical machinery. But the machinery wasn’t what caught Serina’s attention. It was the patient – a tall, slim blonde, with blue eyes and a hairdo one would expect to see in chancery or in one of the expensive, shady bars. She was clearly a Gemon, wearing a flowing, translucent gown made of some reddish gauze, adorned with a gold fringe on its hems. It left her neck, arms and entire back bare, while there were shreds of the same fabric wrapped around her upper arms.

Patroclus finished placing the arm, then he touched it carefully.

“Do you feel any pain?” he asked.

The blonde shook her head, looking at him through her long eyelashes with almost-convincing admiration.

“Not at all,” she replied in a child-like voice. “My arm feels… numb.”

“As it should be,” Patroclus replied.

Now that he had the arm in place, he drew out something that looked like a trio of gun barrels from inside a cavity of one of the machines. After each gun barrel had been pointed at a different area of the arm within the tube, he pressed a series of buttons and faint, laser-like beams came out of the gun barrels. As soon as the beams had penetrated the transparent surface of the tubing, they were diffused, entering the arm at several points.

“What are you feeling?” he asked. “Is the arm still numb?”

“N-no,” the blonde said, biting her lower lip. “It’s a… a sharp, tingling sensation.”

“Good,” Patroclus pressed the buttons again, and the gun barrels retracted back into the machine. “It means the bone has knitted properly,” he removed her arm from the transparent tubing and smiled at her, with a not-entirely-professional interest. “Better?”

The blonde stretched the arm, and then folded it. “Feels like it hadn’t even been broken,” she said happily.

Patroclus scanned the arm with a small, hand-held device and nodded contentedly. “The bone has been fused whole,” he said, his voice more professional now. “It’s probably even stronger than before.”

“It’s wonderful!” were there actual tears in those blue eyes? _Damn_ , Serina thought, _but she’s really good!_ “Thank you, doctor!”

“With equipment like this, I’m just a mechanic,” Patroclus replied with a tolerant smile. “A talented mechanic, to be sure, but just a mechanic. Anything else I can do for you, Cassiopeia?”

 _Cassiopeia_? Where had she heard that name before? Patroclus’ offer seemed to mean more than mere medical attention – did he know the woman from before? Serina gave that pretty face a good, hard look, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember where they might have met in the past.

The woman raised an artfully plucked eyebrow at the doctor. “I sense a price tag,” she said bluntly. “Would you be this helpful if I weren’t a _socialator_?”

A _socialator_! Now Serina recognized the gold fringe decorating that very revealing garb; not only a _socialator_ , but one of the high-class escorts that had – or used to have – a respected status within the _Labyrinth_. Whatever Capricans might think about them, _socialators_ were an important part of Gemoni religion and society. How did one of them, and one of considerable importance by the sight of her, end up right here?

“I might,” Patroclus answered her question with his customary self-confidence; he might have been a third son, but he still belonged to one of the Great Houses. “Then again, I might not.”

“Very well,” she said, sounding strangely business-like all of a sudden. “You know my intercom code. Make an appointment. But be discreet. I’ll need the support of Lieutenant Starbuck to remain aboard this ship.”

 _Starbuck_! Wasn’t that the name the two female pilots, Deitra and Brie were mentioning? Serina’s curiosity was piqued. Now, perhaps she’d learn who _that_ is!

From her hiding place, she could see the _socialator_ leave Life Station. In the corridor outside the infirmary a young pilot was waiting for her, leaning laconically against a wall, still in flight gear. He had tousled, tawny hair, killer cheekbones and incredibly blue eyes – a ladies’ man if Serina had ever seen one. The _socialator_ went to him with carefully displayed hesitation and laid a slim hand upon his chest.

“You’re going to take me back to the Gemini freighter, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice trembling ever so slightly.

The pilot shrugged. “It isn’t easy to cop a ride around here,” he said.

She turned away from him, the blood visibly draining out of her pretty face. “I dread returning to that ship,” she whispered.

Serina couldn’t blame her for _that_. Like all other ships, the Gemini freighters where crowded with hungry, sick and disoriented people. And if some of them happened to belong to the Otori sect, they would easily pick a _socialator_ – someone they would consider dirty, worse than daggit meat – as a convenient sacrifice for their frustrations. The pilot seemed to understand that, too, because he patted Cassiopeia’s freshly healed arm encouragingly.

“Look, maybe I can check around, see if there’s anyplace else you can stay. There’re better ships, might even be space aboard the _Galactica_.”

She looked at him with some doubt. “And you’re going to do this out of the goodness of your heart?”

The pilot rolled his eyes. “Look, _really_ , I just want to help you. Nothing personal.”

“ _Nothing_ personal?” she repeated doubtfully.

“Well, _something_ personal,” he admitted. “But I’ll still locate some quarters for you. And that’s all,” he flashed her a smile that was positively blinding. “You can broke my arm if I’m lying. ‘course it might be worth a broken arm…”

“All right, all right,” the _socialator_ laughed.

The pilot raised an eyebrow. “It’s a deal then?”

“I think you’ve made a terrible deal,” she replied, “but all right.”

The pilot smiled genially as he took her arm, the one that Patroclus had just repaired at Life Station, and led her down the corridor. Serina felt something akin to envy, watching the game played out with such professionalism. Of course, _socialator_ training had to pay out, one way or another. Compared with this woman, even she counted as an amateur.

An amateur who could still play in the upper league, though. And now that she had identified a possible threat, she could plan her moves more carefully. The computer in her future office would have access to the ship’s database. She’d be able to find out something about this woman… and her possible connections to _Sire_ Uri and his friends. She was not about to let her chance being ruined by a _socialator_ , of all people.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Right now, however, she had to get through her own physical, and the sooner she faced Patroclus again, the faster could she get out of Life Station. To say that the doctor was surprised to see her aboard the _Galactica_ would have been an understatement; _shocked_ would have been more accurate.

“Serina!” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been relocated to the _Galactica_ for Boxey’s sake,” she replied with her sweetest smile. “Courtesy of Captain Apollo. He found that the boy was dangerously weakened and needed medical assistance.”

“Captain Apollo, eh?” Patroclus raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “You’re playing in the upper league now?”

“Actually, I am,” she answered calmly. “I’ll be working for Commander Adama, as the chronist of the Fleet’s journey, effective today.”

Patroclus whistled. “By Sagan, that was fast! I’m impressed. Well, I guess congratulations are in order. You’ve come for your physical, I presume?”

Serina nodded. “They told me it would be obligatory for everyone who comes aboard a Battlestar.”

“It is,” unexpectedly, Patroclus smiled at her. “And since you’re here, and we have all the necessary equipment at hand, let’s do it properly. It will take time to run all the tests, though; where have you left the kid?”

“His name’s Boxey, not _the kid_ ,” Serina said sharply. “And he’s having his own tests right now.”

“What did you tell Captain Apollo, who he is?” Patroclus asked, preparing his instruments.

“The truth,” she answered simply. “He found it… commendable that I’d take in a child who isn’t even my own, it seems.”

Patroclus shook his head in tolerant amusement. “You always land on your feet, don’t you? Just like a _felix_.”

“And I don’t have any other weapons to fend for myself and for those who depend on me than my wits and my skills,” she retorted. “Just like a _felix_ , surrounded by _vulpines_.”

“True enough,” Patroclus admitted. “Well, I wish you the best of luck… and don’t worry about me. I won’t do anything to make things more difficult for you.”

She smiled at him. “I know that; you’re an honest man; and we _did_ have a good time, didn’t we?”

“The best,” he agreed. “Well then, let’s get you through the examinations, so that you can continue on your way to greatness. You deserve to succeed.”

To his credit, he did a thorough job. He ran every test Serina had ever heard of; and even a few she hadn’t. One of the tests required taking a bone marrow sample and it was quite painful, which she told him in not uncertain terms.

“I’m really sorry,” Patroclus apologized,” but there’s no other way to do this.”

“What do you need a bone marrow sample for?” Serina asked.

“I want to test it for Pluton poisoning,” he answered grimly.

Serina blanched. “Why? Do you think I might have been exposed to Pluton weapons?”

“I hope not,” he said in honest concern, “but you did spend _sectares_ on the bombed-down Caprica, and we’ve already found _one_ patient among the survivors with suspicious symptoms. So… better safe than sorry, I’d say. The little discomfort is worth making sure that you’re all right.”

Serina nodded glumly. He was right, of course, but that didn’t make her feel any better.

“Who’s the patient… the one with the symptoms?” she asked.

Patroclus shook his head. “You know I can’t tell you that; besides, we aren’t even sure yet that it’s indeed Pluton poisoning. The tests are complicated and take _sectares_ to be completed. That’s why we only make them when there are suspicious symptoms… or in case of old acquaintances and family members,” he added with a small smile.

“Which category did that blonde _socialator_ fit?” Serina asked. “The one who’d just tried to get into your pants? Or was it _you_ , trying to get into _her_ pants?”

“Neither of those things,” he answered with a shrug. “She’s a high-class _socialator_ , with an academy-level education. Women like her were trained in arcane techniques of healing; techniques that are very effective in minor cases of malady and discomfort, _and_ they don’t require any medication… which, as you might know, is on the short side right now. Until they can harvest the next bunch of _coda_ , we won’t be able to produce medical supplies.”

“You want to offer her a _job_?” she asked in surprise.

Patroclus nodded. “Yeah, why not? Medical personnel is hopelessly overworked; we need more people here with all the patients coming in from all over the Fleet, and _socialators_ are generally good with people. Would there be more of us, we might be able to set up other clinics on other ships, but as things are right now, we can barely man Life Station of the _Galactica_.”

“And you really think that a high-class _socialator_ would be willing to serve as a med tech aboard a Battlestar?” Serina couldn’t really imagine _that_. Given their importance in Gemoni society, _socialators_ \- especially high-class ones - usually considered themselves celebrities and only accepted the richest, most important customers from other colonies.

Patroclus shrugged indifferently. “Perhaps not right away. But the _Labyrinth_ is gone, and she can’t count on the support of the high priestesses - she was a commercial _socialator_ , not a sacral one.”

“You know her?” Serina asked in surprise. She hadn’t thought him to be one to patronize paid company.

“Not personally,” he replied. “But I’ve seen her several times in the company of Commander Caine. She used to be his permanent escort; they even made it onto the front page of society magazines a few times, if memory serves me well. And before him, she’d been seen with _Sire_ Geller, too, on parties organized by _Sire_ Uri.”

“All elderly, or at least mature men,” Serina said thoughtfully. “What would she want from such a young pilot then? And from one without an old and respected bloodline? That’s not her usual prey schema.”

“Perhaps she simply can’t afford to be choosy,” Patroclus replied cynically. Then he gave her a questioning look. “Are you afraid that she might ruin your plans?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Should I?”

Patroclus thought about that for a _micron_ ; then he shook his head.

“No, I don’t think so. Captain Apollo is a very serious-minded young man, with clear – you could even say a little rigid – moral principles. He’d find patronizing a _socialator_ morally unacceptable for his rank and his status as the heir of the Adamans. As for the Commander – he is _not_ Caine. He’s a deeply religious man; a devout Kobolian who’s still mourning his wife. Neither of them is inclined to seek out such distractions.”

“Nor would they find some of my former… choices acceptable, I’m afraid,” Serina murmured. “I know you won’t tell anyone, but a lot of people around _Sire_ Uri knew that I used to be your dependant… and the people in the shelter, after the bombing of Caprica, must have at least guessed what kind of price I paid for _Sire_ Antipas’ favour.”

“You need not to worry about Antipas,” Patroclus said grimly.

The tone of his voice startled Serina. “Is he dead?”

“No,” the doctor said. “At least not yet… but he’s in a bad shape. We’re not sure we’ll be able to save him.”

“His arm… the infection..” Serina trailed off.

“Among other things, yes,” Patroclus sighed. “Doctor Salik had to remove the arm, and we’re currently fighting the blood poisoning, but… it doesn’t look good.”

“That’s a shame,” she said, and she meant it. “He wasn’t a bad one as politicians go; saved a lot of people during the bombing. I hope he makes it.”

“We all do, although what kind of life he could hope for, crippled and with no useful skills, is everyone’s guess,” Patroclus said. “In any case, if you’re concerned about certain… aspects of your former life being revealed, you can do but one thing: tell Captain Apollo the truth. If you present it the right way, who knows, he might even be able to deal with it.”

“Or turn his back on me in shock and disgust,” Serina said.

“Hardly,” Patroclus replied. “He’s already covered you in Boxey’s case, so he’s probably not as stiff as he sometimes seems. Also, he might be idealistic, but he’s not naïve. He’ll know that favours always have their prices. It would be a daring gamble, for sure, but the winnings could prove high… if your final goal _is_ to get Sealed to him.”

“I’m not sure yet myself,” she admitted. “I prefer my men on a more mature side; and things are happening so fast anyway, I can barely keep up with all the changes.”

“Then go slowly,” he suggested. “Find out what you want and what you’re willing to pay for it. I know you’ve always valued your freedom, but right now, having protection would be perhaps better for the immediate future.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
That was a statement Serina couldn’t really argue with; besides, as much as she valued her independence, she’d never set it before comfort. Still, if she truly wanted to ensnare Captain Apollo for life – something she wasn’t entirely certain about yet – she’d need a plan very carefully and take multiple aspects under consideration. Aspects that couldn’t always be brought under the same hat. Like winning Commander Adama’s trust while supporting his daughter’s ambitions to take her fate under her own hands, for example.

Which brought up the delicate question whether she ought to tell Athena that her… significant other was dallying with a _socialator_. Because – unlike the Commander’s daughter – Serina knew men well enough to see that Lieutenant Starbuck was definitely interested in that blonde tramp. Caprican men usually had an unhealthy interest for things their official religion condemned, even if they weren’t particularly religious; and Lieutenant Starbuck certainly didn’t seem the religious type. Although one could never know, of course.

In any case, the question remained: should she warn Athena that she was about to lose her suitor to a _socialator_ or not? Deitra seemed to think the relationship was doomed, but even if that was true, did she, Serina, want a skilled _socialator_ worm her way into the extended family of the Adamans, via one of Captain Apollo’s best friends? It was said that the Commander saw Lieutenant Starbuck almost as a son; should Cassiopeia manage to claw him, she’d gain access to the _de facto_ ruling family of the entire Fleet. Did Serina truly want that kind of competition?

On the one hand, it would be an interesting challenge to test her skills against those of a professional – and what a trained _socialator_ didn’t know about men was not worth knowing, plain and simple. On the other hand, if she didn’t play her cards right, she might lose the game, and _that_ wasn’t something she could afford.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
She was still uncertain about what she ought to do when she picked up Boxey – who was declared physically healthy, just a little malnourished – and took him to Rejuvenation Centre for midday meal. To her surprise, there she ran into Lieutenant Athena, who seemed to be alone… and promptly asked if she could join them.

“Of course, Lieutenant… I mean, Athena,” Serina corrected herself hurriedly. “This is my son, Boxey, by the way.”

Athena smiled and held out her hand to the boy. “Hello Boxey, I’m Athena, the sister of Captain Apollo. I understand you know my brother?”

The boy took the proffered hand, looked at her with big brown eyes and nodded. “Are you a pilot, too?” he asked.

“Yes, I am, but not a Viper pilot like my brother,” she explained readily. “I fly shuttles; but most of the time, I work on the bridge. See my uniform? Bridge officers wear blue, you know.”

The boy gave said uniform a thorough look; then he shook his head. “I wanna be a Viper pilot,” he declared. “Like Captain Apollo.”

Serina wanted to kick the kid in the shin; fortunately, Athena took no offence.

“Wouldn’t we all,” she murmured, with just a hint of bitterness in her voice; then she turned to Serina. “Actually, I came with a message from my father: he’d like you to have dinner with us tonight. In his quarters. Nothing formal; he just wants to know you a little better. To tell the truth, so do we all.”

“I’m flattered,” Serina said, “Although I can’t think of a reason why you should, truly. I’ve never been in your league.”

“Perhaps,” Athena replied, “but the courage you displayed while transmitting the pictures about the Destruction, and later the way you calmed down the angry mob on Caprica, have impressed both Father and Apollo. That was part of the reason why Father had Tigh offer you a job.”

Serina blushed, which rarely happened to her. “I’ll do my best to prove worthy of the Commander’s trust,” she said. “But I’m afraid I don’t have anything to wear for an occasion like that. We didn’t exactly have the time to pack before leaving the planet.”

“I’ll take you to the Wardrobe, as soon as I’ve got off-duty,” Athena promised. “We’d had… casualties, and their personal belongings were stored, unless they had surviving family that would claim their things. I know it sounds a bit like grave robbery, but…” she shrugged. “Throwing away valuable resources would be a criminal waste, especially as the Textiles Ship hasn’t begun producing yet. For a while, we’ll have to shop second-hand, I guess.”

“There are worse things,” Serina, who’d been forced to do that before by financial means, replied. “Do you think Child Care Centre could send me a babysitter for Boxey? I wouldn’t like to leave him alone in our quarters.”

“You don’t have to,” Athena said. “Father wants the boy to come, too. Apollo told us the whole story,” she added in a low voice, “and Father decided he wanted to meet him.”

“We’re truly honoured,” Serina answered. “And we thankfully accept, of course.”

They made arrangements for the shopping tour, and then Athena left, returning to the bridge. Serina got lunch for Boxey and for herself, but she was so nervous and excited that she could barely eat. All that sudden good luck almost frightened her. She wasn’t superstitious by nature, but didn’t they say that too much good luck usually had a very high price afterwards?

Boxey, blessed with the ignorance of a small child, didn’t notice her near-anxiety. He was happy and excited by the chance to meet his hero, Captain Apollo, soon. Now that he’d overcome his sullen mood, he was a truly charming kid; Serina only hoped Commander Adama would be of the same opinion.


	9. Chapter 7 - Family Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Cinerea_ , is the official name of the butternut. In old BSG tradition, I use it here for walnuts in general, since we don’t have a canon name for them.  
> Re: the clothing question. I was always a bit baffled that all the women seemed to have a wide selection of evening dresses aboard the _Galactica_. I could have understood about the military, they _lived_ on the ship for _yahrens_ , after all, so they ought to have some civilian garb, to, but the refugees? Besides, some of those evening dresses really looked awful. So I tried to find an explanation. ;)

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 07 – FAMILY DINNER**

It was shortly before the beginning of night watch, according to the peculiar way time was counted aboard a Battlestar, when Serina finally stood at the front door of Commander Adama’s quarters, holding Boxey’s hand. Her stomach was of the size of a dried _cinerea_ kernel, and she was hoping that Boxey would behave himself. This would be their first real meeting with the Commander who, since the Destruction, had also been acting as the President of the hurriedly re-elected _Quorum_ – an event that had taken place only four days previously – and everyone knew how important first impressions were.

Athena had kept her word. She’d come to Serina’s quarters right after the end of her shift and escorted them – Boxey, too – to the so-called Wardrobe. Originally designed to serve as a depot for uniforms, this series of interconnected, large rooms near the quartermaster’s office now served as a depot for any sorts of clothes, mostly left behind by dead crewmembers or collected from the destroyed Colonies. Someone from the lower ranks had apparently had the common sense to pick up clothes and household textiles, realising that the refugees would eventually need something to _wear_. Or to use in the turbowash.

Arriving there, Athena had produced more plastic chips; different ones in size and colour from the food chips, explaining that clothes, too, were being rationed aboard the _Galactica_. But since Serina was now employed by Central Data Services – at least nominally – she was entitled to four sets of garments both for herself and Boxey, who was registered as her dependant. This apparently meant overgarments as well as proper underwear. With what little she’d been able to gather among the ruins of Caprica, she’d now be able to look respectable enough to work in the immediate environment of the Commander.

Unfortunately, Wardrobe hadn’t really been able to offer anything that would be proper to wear when invited to dinner by the highest nobility. The dress she was wearing right now was what she considered the lesser evil: a simple, pale blue gown with a wide yet not too deep cleavage that left just the tops of her shoulders free and reached down to her ankles. 

To prevent looking too exposed, she wore her long, shiny brown hair down, so that it covered her entire back and shadowed her bare neck and shoulders, implying an air of modesty. It wouldn’t have been _that_ bad, had in not been blue. She _hated_ blue. It clashed with her green eyes and made her look like a corpse. Especially as she had no cosmetics products to counteract the ghastly effect. But it couldn’t be helped.

At least Boxey looked neat enough in his new, golden brown trousers and tunic. The clerk in Wardrobe had even found a child-sized cape for him, which made him very happy, as he found he looked just like a warrior in it. The little scamp.

Said little scamp now tugged on her hand impatiently.

“Mommy, are we gonna in yet? They’re _waiting_ , and we’ll be late!” he reminded her.

He’d accepted easily enough that Serina was his Mommy now and got used to calling her that. It warmed her heart, even if it was only a sham… well, actually, it wasn’t. Not truly. She _had_ come to love the kid as if he were her own.

She smiled down into the eager little face. “All right, you imp, let’s go in. Do you want to ring the bell?”

Boxey nodded enthusiastically, and so she scoped him up and held him close enough to push the buzzer. Which he did, perhaps a little too energetically; but again, he was just a child. An excited and happy child once again, thanks to the Lords of Kobol… and to Captain Apollo who’d somehow managed to cajole him out of his bleak mood.

To Serina’s surprise it was Captain Apollo who came to answer the door; she’d expected a servant or a yeoman or some other personnel to do it. But apparently the Adamans were different from the rest of the Great Houses. Apollo was still wearing his pilot’s uniform, proving that Athena had been right: this wasn’t going to be a formal event. In that case he’d have been in his dress blues.

“Serina,” he smiled broadly, which gave him an almost boyish look; it looked surprisingly good on him, truth be told. “It’s good to see you again.”

“And you, Captain,” she answered, while Boxey was beaming at the man.

“Apollo,” he corrected gently. “I’m off-duty now and happy about it. Hello Boxey!”

Boxey wordlessly held up his arms, signalling that he wanted to be picked up, and laughing, Apollo took him from Serina. Serina didn’t really mind; for a scrawny six- _yahren_ -old Boxey could tire her out easily, as he wiggled a lot when he got excited.

Carrying the boy as easily as he would a rag doll, Apollo led Serina through a small foyer right into the living room of the Commander, which was spacious but not half as large as any private rooms on the Elite level of the _Rising Star_ and almost Sagittarian in its simplicity.

Nor were there many people around the dinner table; the Commander himself, of course, wearing his uniform as always. Athena, in a simple, dark blue gown, her wavy cloud of mahogany hair pulled to one side and held in place by an elaborate silver brooch. And another uniformed pilot, whom Serina recognized as Lieutenant Starbuck.

He shone like a fane among the dark-haired, patrician Adamans. Like a fane of pure gold. Serina could understand why Athena would be attracted to him – there was a wild, untamed lust for _life_ in him, so very different from the disciplined (perhaps even restricted) ways of her own family.

Whether the two of them would be a good match – or even a healthy one – was another matter entirely. For her part Serina very much doubted it, but she didn’t think _that_ would keep Athena from Sealing with him if she wanted and he’d be willing, despite Deitra’s prediction. It didn’t keep _her_ from marrying Boreas, either, although she should have known better.

Seeing them enter, Commander Adama courteously rose from his chair and came to greet her, every bit the patriarch not only his own family but now, due to the lack of proper civilian leadership, also that of their entire people. (She didn’t consider the new _Quorum_ as proper leaders of the Fleet and was grateful that they were still under military law.)

Back on post-apocalyptic Caprica, Serina hadn’t had the time to study the Commander’s face, so she used to opportunity now and decided that he didn’t look like an older version of any of his children. Both Apollo and Athena must have come after their mother, as – contrary to their smooth elegance – Adama’s face was a bit roughly shaped, as if cut by an axe, and deeply lined… not just because of his age. His eyes were dark brown, and while his hair was pure silver now, his eyebrows revealed that it once must have been dark, too – the only feature his children had inherited. All in all, he was an imposing figure.

“Serina, my dear,” he said in a disarmingly friendly manner and, taking her hand in both of his, squeezed it gently. His hands were warm and dry like desert sand, due to the long _yahrens_ spent in an artificial environment. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you chose to accept our offer. We need someone like you here, to file away an honest record.”

“How could I refuse?” she replied with a smile that would have dazzled any man under a hundred _yahrens_. “Although I still can’t understand why you would chose me, Commander. We haven’t even met before, save on Caprica after the Destruction; and as a newswoman, I was never a big enough name to have caught your attention.”

“True enough,” Adama nodded. “But I used to know your mother and valued her work on the outer colonies highly. Not many representatives of the Planetary Council would have laboured so tirelessly for those too weak to raise their voices. I hoped her daughter would be just as reliable.”

Serina inclined her head respectfully. “I’ll try my best, Commander.”

“I don’t have the slightest doubt about _that_ , my dear,” Adama said gallantly. “And you shall have your first chance to prove yourself, first thing in the next _secton_. I’ve had an observer's place reserved for you on the gallery for the next _Quorum_ meeting. I think you’ll find it… educational.”

“Knowing some of the newly-elected Councillors from first-hand experience, I believe you, Commander,” Serina replied, her tone mildly cynical, but her head was reeling.

A _Quorum_ meeting! She was about to be granted access to a _Quorum_ meeting as an official observer! That was better than anything she could have hoped for! Granted, it wasn’t a glamorous assignment, not the way she used to imagine her career as a newswoman, but a highly profitable one. Information was always power – especially in a situation like their current one.

She demurely thanked the Commander for the opportunity, and then dinner was being served. Not an opulent one as she’d seen in the _Club Elite_ , though; it had clearly been combined from the usual rations, but in a highly imaginative way.

“Before I was allowed to become a warrior, I’d been trained to run a patrician household,” Athena explained with a wry smile when she complimented her on the meal. “I never believed it would actually prove useful one day. I’m not suited to be a brave little homemaker.”

“No,” Starbuck said in complete agreement. “You’re suited to become a warrior Queen of legends.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Starbuck,” she replied sternly but couldn’t quite hide her satisfaction over the compliment. 

The blond pilot just smiled smugly as someone who always knows how to say just the right thing to make a woman – _any_ woman – happy.

“Oh, I’m not sure about that,” Serina commented sweetly. “It seems to get him quite far, quite fast with _other_ women. Even the ones he’d just picked up on some refugee ship. No use to deny, Lieutenant,” she added with a falsely congratulatory smile. “I’ve seen you at Life Station – and she seemed _very_ impressed with you.”

“That’s Starbuck for you,” Apollo replied before the blond pilot could have. “Beloved by men, women and children, young and old, animals and perhaps even trees. I don’t know how he does it, but sometimes I think he could even charm a Cylon out of its armour.”

“It’s a gift,” Starbuck declared blithely. “I can’t help being irresistible.”

But his eyes lingered on Serina’s face, wary and suspicious. He must have recognized the worthy opponent in her.

She smiled at him in false innocence.

“Well, aren’t you a lucky one, Lieutenant? Other people don’t have high-class _socialators_ fall for them in a heartbeat.”

Athena’s pale eyes turned to ice. “You patronizing _socialators_ now, Starbuck? That’s a new low, even for you.”

“I’m not _patronizing_ her,” Starbuck protested through gritted teeth. “We’ve rescued her from one of the Gemini freighters, where she’d nearly been lynched by members of the Otori sect. She had a broken arm, so I took her to Life Station for treatment. And that’s all. Ask Boomer if you don’t believe me!”

Serina nodded, pretending to take his side. “Doctor Paye said they could use someone like her at Life Station, to care for the less serious cases. That would help her to get away from those fanatics… and save you the effort to find suitable quarters for her, as promised. Or aren’t medical personnel housed within Life Station?”

“They are indeed,” Apollo suddenly burst out in laughter. “And wouldn’t Colonel Tigh just love that? A _socialator_ , serving at Life Station aboard a Battlestar. Aboard _his_ Battlestar!”

“I always had the distinct impression that she was _my_ Battlestar,” Commander Adama said mildly.

Apollo grinned from ear to ear.

“Believe me, Father; you might _command_ her, but the colonel is practically _Sealed_ to her. They say he can tell you the speed the _Galactica_ is travelling with by the vibration of the deck plates.”

“He can,” Adama said, “which is a good thing, don’t you think? And no, he won’t be happy about a _socialator_ serving at Life Station, but not for the reason you mean. He won’t be happy with _any_ untrained personnel being drafted into service. He likes to do things by the book.”

“If that isn’t the understatement of the millennium!” Starbuck muttered. He and the colonel weren’t always on the best of terms, mostly due to his light-hearted disregard of the regs.

“But he _will_ give in, eventually,” Adama continued. “Life Station only has personnel to cover the needs of a Battlestar, not those of an entire fleet full of civilians. We’ll have to adapt to the new situation, in more things than just in the selection of medical personnel, I’m afraid.”

“None of which the Colonel – Or Commander Kronus, for that matter – would truly welcome,” Apollo commented. “Considering how old-fashioned they both are…”

“I fear that you’re right about that, son.” Adama nodded. “Fortunately for me, that will be a battle for other people to fight.”

Apollo’s brows drew together in suspicion. “What do you mean?”

“I’m submitting my resignation as acting President of the Twelve Worlds to the newly-elected _Quorum_ tomorrow,” Adama replied simply. “That’s what the _Quorum_ meeting is about; and why I want an independent observer to be there and make the records,” he added with a sideway glance at Serina.

The announcement was greeted with stunned silence. Everyone, including Lieutenant Starbuck, was too shocked to react right away. Several _microns_ ticked by before he and Apollo began to speak simultaneously.

“Commander, you can’t!” the blonde pilot exclaimed.

“Father, I think we better talk,” Apollo declared grimly.

Adama nodded with a faint smile. “Of course; but as I told Tigh when he tried to talk me out of it, my mind is made up.”

He glanced at Boxey who, exhausted by all the new impressions, had fallen asleep during all that grownup-talk, as he’d call it.

“I don’t believe that what we’re about to say would be suitable for the ears of a small child, though,” he added.

Serina rose hurriedly. “I1ll take him home, Commander. Let you discuss the matter among yourselves.”

“No,” Adama stopped her. “I want you to be here as a witness, so that there would be no unfounded rumours about the possible reasons of my decision. Take the boy into my bedroom; these rooms are sound-proof, so his rest won’t be disturbed – even if there should be some shouting,” he added dryly.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
He must have known his firstborn very well, because when Serina returned to the dining room, Apollo was already exploding into his face.

“Father, it’s treasonous to even consider stepping down in the current situation!”

“Apollo!” his sister glared at her in shocked disbelief. “You have the simple mind of a mechanical drone, programmed only to fight. Have you even considered what might have motivated this decision? No, you haven’t. You never…”

“Athena, please,” his father interrupted. “Let’s not turn what’s left of our family into a vortex of invective.”

“I won’t let your feelings be battered around by a man who feels absolutely nothing!” Athena protested, her eyes blazing with anger.

“That’s enough,” Adama interrupted again. “I said I wish to resign, not to leap into a void. And I’m perfectly capable of defending my own actions.”

“Not by _my_ measure,” Apollo snapped.

His father gave him a look that would make a lesser man quake in his boots. Even Starbuck made a careful step backwards, and he didn’t look like someone who’d be easily frightened. The Commander stepped closer to his son, almost into his face, and they stared at each other unblinkingly.

“What’s your measure?” Adama asked in a low, dangerous voice. “What heartbeat guides you in telling one man he must die while another may live?”

That seemed to shake Apollo a little, because his expression softened considerably. He grabbed his father’s shoulders, as if trying to listen to him.

“Could any man have done better or been fairer?” he asked, almost gently. “Did you succumb to influence or politics or whimsy? Didn’t you do the best you could?”

For a moment, Adama couldn’t find the answer to that. He stepped back, letting his son’s hands fall from his shoulder and turned away.

“Yes,” he finally admitted, “yes. But for the first time, it isn’t enough to know that I did my best. I’ll sleep in some semblance of peace only when I know that I’ll never have to face that agony again.”

Apollo’s face hardened again. “That’s cowardice!” he declared, and, shaking his head in anger, he stormed off, an apologetic-looking Starbuck in tow.

“Apollo!” Athena called after him in dismay. “If you turn on him now, I…”

But her father interrupted her.

“Let him go,” he sounded old and very, very tired, all of the sudden. “He’s not entirely wrong, you know.”

“Father!” Athena protested, tears swimming in her eyes. “You are _not_ a coward!”

Her father raised a hand to stop the argument.

“Maybe… or maybe I am. For not speaking out soon enough, when the Destruction might have been avoided.”

“They wouldn’t listen to you, Commander,” Serina said quietly. “The Councillors were so enamoured with President Adar’s magnificent vision of peace – we all were, to tell the truth – that no-one of them would have listened to military objections.”

“Commander Xaviar, at least, would have,” Adama sighed. “He, at least, doubted the genuinity of the Cylon peace offering as much as I did. And his word would have considerable weight, him being the Chief Warlord of Sagittara.”

“But not a Councillor; at least not back then,” Serina pointed out. “And even so, you’d have been outnumbered and outvoted.”

“Perhaps,” Adama allowed reluctantly. “Still I should have tried, at the very least.”

“Do you truly think there’s someone better qualified to lead?” Athena was fighting her tears as she asked.”

“There has to be,” the Commander replied with a heavy sigh. “Or we’re doomed.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“There’s no use trying to fight him when he’s already made up his mind,” Athena said in defeat.

She was escorting Serina, who was carrying the sleeping Boxey, back to their quarters, not finding the strength to return to her own rooms all alone just yet.

“Oh?” Serina said noncommittally.

Athena nodded. “Not even Mother could make him change his mind, once he’d come to a decision… and he’d do just about _anything_ for Mother.”

“Is he going to be all right?” Serina asked in concern.

It wasn’t an entirely selfless thing on her side. All their lives depended on the Commander’s well-being and on his ability to make split- _micron_ decisions – preferably the right ones. They might have managed to shake off the Cylon pursuit, thanks to Captain Apollo’s cleverly-constructed camouflage field – or so she’d been told – but that made by no means certain that they’d be out of danger entirely. On the contrary – a Cylon attack force could have been hiding behind every planet, every stray moon. The homicidal tinheads were generously spread all over this galactic sector… and probably beyond it, too.

“That’s what _I_ asked him a few days ago,” Athena replied with a sad little smile. “Do you know what he answered? That he’d personally recommend for catharsis treatment everyone among us who’d say he or she was all right… after what happened.”

“There is some truth in that,” Serina admitted. Sooner or later, the Psych techs – assuming that any of them had survived – would have their hands full counselling trauma victims.

“I asked him whatever happened to the joy of living to fight another way… you know, the warrior commonplace,” Athena went on.

Serina nodded. “Yeah, I’ve heard about that one. What did he answer?”

“That I was aboard the _Galactica_ ; I couldn’t know what it was like down, on the planet,” Athena said. “That I didn’t see the survivors; their faces, their despair, screaming for a chance to coma aboard… a chance to live. And there he was, like God, passing out priorities as if they were tickets for Chancery. He said, he didn’t want to do that anymore.”

She paused and looked at Serina questioningly. “ _You_ were down there, all the time. Was it truly that horrible? Horrible enough for an old warrior of Father’s format to resign?”

Serina remembered the _sectares_ of hope and despair; the hunger, the terror, her own desperate attempts to escape from the burning planet… and nodded slowly.

“Worse,” she said. “It was worse than you can imagine. Worse than _I_ could have imagined, and I’d visited some of the outer colonies after a Cylon attack for the studios.”

Athena nodded her understanding. “Then I cannot blame him for wanting someone else to do it. To take this burden for him. He’s carried it on his shoulders long enough.”

“Captain Apollo seems a lot less understanding than you are,” Serina commented.

“My dear brother is a good, honest man, but a bit rigid in his thinking,” Athena admitted with a sigh. “It’s not his fault, though; not entirely. I had it easier; I’m just Father’s little girl, even if it’s frustrating sometimes that he doesn’t think I could keep it up with his sons. But Apollo… expectations towards him, as the firstborn and Father’s heir, have always been impossibly high, yet somehow he always rose to them. Even if he had to bend backwards to achieve that lofty goal. In exchange, he’d put Father on such a high pedestal it would make the Lords of Kobol themselves dizzy.”

“In other words: he idolized his father,” Serina finished. She’d seem such things often enough, even in the Houses of lesser nobility. Caprican nobles were very blood-conscious as a rule and expected much from their firstborn sons. Too much sometimes, it seemed.

“Something like that,” Athena agreed. “And now he’s having a hard time to face the fact that Father, too, is just a man, after all. An old man whose strength is not limitless.”

“He’s disappointed, then,” Serina guessed.

“He’s sobering up,” Athena corrected. “Coming out of hero worship and trying to deal with the man behind his idol.”

“That can be a long and painful process,” Serina said.

“But a necessary one,” Athena agreed with a shrug. “He’ll come around, eventually. Get over the shock. But despite his disappointment, as you call it, he’ll support Father and his decision in the face of the Twelve Old Fools of the _Quorum_ , as Starbuck likes to call them. You’ll see.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Serina said, hoping that she was right. A division among the Adamans would have been disastrous for them all. She’d have to see how she could perhaps mediate between father and son, now that she’d be working closely with the one and – if she played her cards right – _become_ close to the other.

“Speaking of Lieutenant Starbuck, though,” she added, “would you accept a piece of advice from me?”

Athena eyed her warily. “Depends on the advice.”

“It’s a good, practical one,” Serina promised with a grin. “If you want to keep him – start fighting for him, right now. He seems to be the kind of man who likes it when women fight for him… and that little blonde tramp _will_ fight for him, trust me. He’s her ticket out of being a _socialator_ … a designation not really needed right now, not for quite some time to come. She’ll use all her female viles to ensnare him, and she’s got the advantage of professional training in that area. Unless you act very soon, won’t have the chance of a snowball in Hades.”

“I don’t really know what I want from him,” Athena admitted, a little uncertainly.

“Then make up your mind, tonight rather than tomorrow,” Serina warned, keying in the opening code of her door, “because tomorrow might be already too late.”


	10. Chapter 8 - Council Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the Councillors, _Siress_ Aeriana and _Sire_ Ixion are my original characters. The others appeared in the one or other canon episode, but neither colony designation, nor personal background was given, so I took some poetic freedom in that area.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 08 – COUNCIL MEETING**

The newly-appointed Council of Elders – a temporary assemblage that would govern what was left of the Twelve Tribes until a proper _Quorum_ could be elected – gathered in the Council Chamber… originally a conference room for the senior officers of the Battlestar that had been modified for this very purpose. It had a long table in the middle, surrounded by twelve large, comfortable armchairs, an exact copy of the bridge’s transparent star map near the head of the table, a large viewscreen for communications and a gallery facing the presidential chair for spectators, should they be allowed to participate, which was a very rare thing.

Eleven of the chairs were occupied by the new, temporarily assigned councilmen – or councilwomen, as it was the case for three colonies – who were chatting among themselves anxiously, trying to guess the purpose of this not pre-scheduled meeting. Commander Adama was standing in front of the presidential chair, at the head of the table, ready to begin his resignation speech, a look if grim determination upon his deeply-lined face.

Serina, now wearing an ankle-length dress of a sombre amber colour, as it was appropriate for a government clerk, was sitting on the gallery, looking down at the Council table. A recording device lay before her on a small table, as-yet inactivated. She’d been a little surprised when Apollo had joined her, right at the beginning of the meeting, but she understood quickly that he hadn’t come in his capacity as the Strike Captain of the _Galactica_. He was, after all, the heir of a Great House of Caprica… one of the very few that survived.

Apollo had come in the company of Flag Lieutenant Omega, less known as _Sire_ Orpheus from the House of Lares – now the only survivor of that once rich, powerful and numerous House, who had apparently taken interest in politics, but only from the sidelines. He could have made a run for the seat of the Caprican councillor, of course, and with a reasonable chance to win, too. He outranked young _Sire_ Telamon – who was reportedly planning to participate in the elections for the permanent _Quorum_ – in the matters of birth, after all. Serina doubted that he would do so, though. He was said to be a dedicated officer, in charge of a dangerously undermanned bridge, and wouldn’t abandon his post to play power games with the Council.

“Is he truly going to go through with that resignation plan of his?” he asked Apollo in a low voice as they were entering the gallery through the back door.

Apollo looked resigned and angered simultaneously. “He’s submitting it to the _Quorum_ at this very meeting, yes.”

Omega shook his head thoughtfully. “With fuel and food running so low, it’s the worst possible time for him to resign. If we ever needed leadership…”

“I know," Apollo sighed. “I argued with him. Hades, I _shouted_ at him, and so did Tigh. But he wouldn’t be moved. All he said was that the Fleet was filled with good men and the _Quorum_ would decide.”

“Oh, I’m sure they will,” Omega smiled humourlessly. “You’re aware of the fact, of course, that if he resigns now, it will look exactly the same as his act of pulling the _Galactica_ out of battle with the Cylons. I’m sorry, but…”

“Don’t be,” Apollo interrupted. “You’re absolutely right. But we’ve tried our best to make him change his mind and failed. Now we have no other choice than watch the disaster unfold.”

Omega nodded in grim agreement and took a seat, close enough to Apollo to signalize his support to the Adamans but far enough to provide him and Serina with some semblance of privacy. Serina suppressed a smile. It seemed that the rumour mill already considered them an item, and Omega was a well-bred gentleman. Good. 

Now she’d have to be careful; make Apollo believe that courting her had been _his_ idea in the first place. Pressing the issue would be counterproductive; and besides, she had time now. She no longer needed him to keep her aboard the _Galactica_. She could stay on her own right and weave her net patiently.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Mentally reminding herself that she was there to work, Serina took a good, hard look at the temporary Council. The faces she saw were – unsurprisingly – familiar ones. The same faces she’d seen aboard the _Rising Star_ , populating the _Club Elite_. Again, not truly surprising. One had to be nobly born to be elected as a councillor, on most of the colonies; and aristocrats, with very few exceptions, preferred a posh environment.

There was _Siress_ Aeriana, representing the female-dominated society of Aries, wearing a long robe made of some shiny fabric that looked like liquid metal. Her jet-black hair was put high and covered with a metallic headgear that had a half-mask, covering the upper part of her face and dramatically emphasizing her jewelled dark eyes. The gown had a high collar that surrounded her neck and the back of her head like a protective shield – the archaic garment of a Head Amazon.

The youngest two of her four husbands were standing behind her chair, ready to serve her every need. By age, both could easily have been her sons. But again, they were probably junior husbands – mere playthings in the complicated structure of Aerian clan marriages where females outranked males and senior spouses outranked junior ones.

There was _Sire_ Uri, of course, in his opulent robes, representing the Leonid survivors. Tainted as he was with scandal, his people had nevertheless given him a vote of confidence to continue in the _Quorum_ – most likely because no-one else from Leonis’ patrician Houses had survived… although his past success might also have played a role.

There was _Sire_ Geller, a dotardly old man, one of Uri’s trusted allies. He’d been a Councillor longer than Serina had been alive; even though the Aquarians had been unhappy with the way he’d represented – or rather _hadn’t_ represented their interests in the _Quorum_ and had voted him down some ten _yahrens_ before the Destruction. They had still re-elected him now, though... for the time being. 

The only other choice would have been _Sire_ Darius, and even though he’d been higher born and extremely popular as a poet and as the only son of the legendary Commander Devon, people generally found him too young for such heavy responsibility. Serina didn’t think that Darius minded – he seemed to be the kind of young artist who loved his personal freedom above everything else.

There was _Sire_ Ixion, tall, well-built, silver-haired and coldly handsome, representing the Potnia, the dual priestesses of the Gemoni theocracy after decades of serving as a Councillor's aide. His presence was the least surprising; unlike on the other Colonies, on Gemini the office of the Councillor was determined by birthright and usually held to the individual’s death.

 _Sire_ Ixion had left the _Atlantia_ just before the Cylon attack to report back to the Potnia aboard the Gemoni colonization ship, the _Labyrinth_. They’d been thought lost for quite a while before they’d come out of hiding, to everyone’s surprise and delight.

There was Commander Xaviar, the last member of Sagittara’s oldest and most powerful military family, once commander of the Battlestar _Leonidas_ , which he’d lost in the Battle of Molecay, due to Commander Cain’s unexpected departure. He’d been found after the battle in a lifepod, badly burned and his left arm beyond help. 

He’d spent _sectares_ in the best Life Centre of Sagittara until he finally healed, but his face remained disfigured due to the burn marks, and his left arm had been replaced by a bionic implant. He counted as a trusted ally of _Sire_ Anton, but again, Scorpians and Sagittarians usually stuck together.

There was _Siress_ Tinia, representing Canceria’: an ordinary, by-the-book democracy without any aristocracy to name it. Accordingly, _Siress_ Tinia represented a family or rich merchants and textile magnates, with several ships in the Fleet to her name, and had been elected on the basis of her wealth and bargaining skills. The fact that she was the owner of the Textile Ship, too, secured her an important position within what remained from the upper echelon of Colonial society.

There was _Sire_ Lobe, once a wealthy landowner on Piscera and an important deliverer of a broad bandwidth of agrarian products across the colonies. Even with his extensive lands now gone forever, he secured his position due the fact that he owned the Mineral Ships – vessels that had become of crucial importance now – as well as two liners, the _Pisces_ and the _Trainian_ , now both housing hundreds of survivors. He, too, was well known as one of Uri’s allies, although considered too simple-minded to actually realize that he was being manipulated by the Leonid.

Scorpia was – how could it have happened differently? – represented by _Sire_ Anton. The emaciated, old-line politician had been sitting in the second line of the _Quorum_ even longer than _Sire_ Geller and counted as crafty, but his true alliances were nigh impossible to guess.

He’d opposed – carefully – President Adar’s anti-military politics, while still being his aide-de-camps. He’d supported Adama in a number of issues but kept close ties with Uri and his exclusive circle of friends as well. Behind his benevolent, almost senile smile was a shrewd, calculating mind, and the look of his watery blue eyes made Serina shiver whenever she felt them upon herself.

There was _Sire_ Domra, another once-rich landowner, this one from Taura. A well-meaning though not very bright man, who’d risen to unparalleled importance within the Fleet, however, as he owned all the remaining agroships. There could be no doubt that once the harvests began, his influence would grow proportionally. 

Serina wasn’t sure she found _that_ thought reassuring.

Virgon, another agrist society, was represented by Siress Belloby. She, too, had been a rich landowner once, and the head of an interplanetary merchant organization. She owned several ships: the _Orion_ , aboard which she lived, and the Livestock Ships, the latter of which had raised her influence almost as much as owning the agroships had raised that of Sire Domra.

Again, Serina wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not.

And finally, _Sire_ Gamesh, representing Libra – or rather the handful of survivors from Libra, wearing the wide-cut, colourfully striped robes of his lost homeworld: dark, sleek, intense, and beautiful. Once the right-hand man of _Sire_ Uri, Serina wondered whom he would support as a member of the _Quorum_. After all, he was said to be a close friend of Colonel Tigh, the executive officer of the _Galactica_. The official Councillor of Libra was, at least nominally, _Sire_ Togo - a broken old man who considered the trust of his people more as a burden than as a privilege and usually sent Gamesh to speak for him, or so the rumours said.

That was a third player in the Game about whose motivations Serina had serious doubt.

But she was here to record the meeting, not to judge the elders nominated by their own peoples, was she?

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Commander Adama cleared his throat and the Council room became eerily silent. He began to speak, but he couldn’t even reach the end of his resignation speech when the Councillors began to protest.

Some of them even sprang to their feet in outrage.

“No!” Commander Xaviar exclaimed. “I won’t have it. The Fleet needs to remain under military leadership as long as we’re still fleeing from the Cylons.”

“Unacceptable!” _Siress_ Tinia declared as well. “We’re new to the office… most of us are, anyway. We still have to learn how to govern, and we need someone with proper experience to show us the way.”

“Adama, you cannot resign!” _Siress_ Belloby pleaded, making Serina wonder whether the old gossip had been true and she had indeed have a love affair with Adama before the Commander would have married _Siress_ Ila. “Not _you_! We need you!”

 _Sire_ Anton rose and silenced the surge of protests with a sweeping gesture; one made quite dramatic by the wide sleeves of his official robe, Serina noticed cynically.

“Nonsense, Adama,” he said with that benevolent smile of his that didn’t quite reach his watery eyes. “You’ve led us wisely and well. That’s why we cannot accept your resignation. Things are too grave now.”

“I disagree,” _Sire_ Uri said in his sonorous voice. “I think our dear Adama is best qualified to judge his own capability to lead.”

Apollo and Omega exchanged wryly amused looks. It had been obvious that – if there were to be any serious opposition to any sensible plan – it would originate with the Leonid Councillor. He’d vote against anything that could strengthen Adama’s position, simply out of spite.

Serina was of two minds about the whole situation. On the one hand, she owed _Sire_ Uri a great deal for past favours. On the other hand, said favours could easily turn against her in the eyes of the Adamans and their allies. And despite Commander Adama’s resignation, true power still lay in the hand of the military; and there it will remain for a long time to come.

She glanced at Apollo, who seemed furious but held back for the time being. His body language, though, was that of a man ready to jump to his feet and start shouting any _micron_ now. Serina laid a hand upon his forearm to convince him to remain seated and squeezed gently.

“Allow your father to fight his own battles,” she whispered, so that the recording device, adjusted to a longer range, wouldn’t pick up her voice. “Your time will come,” and she turned her attention back to _Sire_ Uri, who was just warming up to the topic.

“In all due respect,” he was saying, “I’m not all that sure that the Commander has led us all that wisely, all that well. I cannot, in good conscience, characterize our present predicament as the result of good planning.”

“I agree,” Commander Xaviar said in his harsh voice; his voice cords, too, had suffered serious damage when he’d been burned. “However, it wasn’t Adama’s fault. The blame lies with the delusional idiots who believed that the Cylons would actually make peace with us. The ones who wouldn’t even allow our Viper squadrons to start in the face of a rapidly approaching Cylon attack force. The same ones who’d decided – despite the protests of the military, if I may add – to bring our entire battle fleet to those so-called peace negotiations, leaving our colonies vulnerable and unprotected. Adama was probably the only member of the _Quorum_ who had no part in _that_.”

“That may be so,” Uri said smoothly. “But I place the blame for the chaos that we endure now squarely on the Commander’s shoulders. Poor judgement in seeking out food and fuel reserves now leave us on the brink of disaster.”

“Oh, Councilman, Councilman,” _Sire_ Anton gave a sound that sounded remarkably like a high-pitched giggle. “If I may say so, you’ve got a lot of nerve, casting accusations about food shortages, when you yourself have been brought up on charges of hoarding in the face of starvation.”

Serina glanced at Apollo, who seemed grimly satisfied that the matter was, at least, being addressed. He’d arrested _Sire_ Uri upon those charges, but it hadn’t done any good. Uri had manipulated the situation to his advantage – even become the leader of the faction opposed to his father.

Apollo had no idea how the man had done _that_ ; perhaps he’d had allies within the Council. Allies who hadn’t been quite as innocent in the same charges as they’d like to appear. Uri’s reply seemed to prove his suspicions.

“Are your hands so clean, Anton?” he asked softly, with a smirk that made Serina shiver. “What about…”

“Gentlemen,” Adama interrupted, clearly disgusted with the whole situation. “Gentlemen, please. This squabbling is not in our best interests.”

“Yes, you’re quite right,” _Sire_ Anton replied with an apologetic gesture. “I’m sorry. What’s truly important right now is that we must make a plan quickly… a plan of survival.”

Adama nodded. “Agreed. _Sire_ Uri is not entirely incorrect about the state we are in now; nor is he unjustified in blaming me…”

“Yes, he is,” Commander Xaviar interrupted harshly. “He tries to put blame where it does not belong to distract others from the blame _he_ carries for the situation. No-one of us is entirely innocent in this disaster.”

“Perhaps so,” Adama allowed. “But the question is not where we ought to put the blame, is it? The problem is, as has been, that there are too many of us. Too many people. Too many ships.”

“Too few of each, if you ask me, considering the number of people we were forced to leave behind to be slaughtered by the tinheads,” Xaviar declared sourly.

“True,” Adama said with a sigh. “But those people are beyond our help; we need to focus on the ones who _did_ get away and who are still numerous. Too numerous for our limited resources. We would have had troubles even if so much of our food supply had not been contaminated; even if so many of our ships had not proved to be in such unstable condition.”

“The military should have prepared better for a possible evacuation,” _Sire_ Geller’s voice was shrill and accusatory.

 _Sire_ Ixion raised an elegant silver eyebrow. “Should they have? And what resources, pray tell, should they have used for it? If I remember correctly, _Sire_ Geller, you used to be one of the most enthusiastic supporters when the late President Adar suggested cutting the military budget to half. That music academy of yours alone could have brought up the costs for a transport vessel… a good, sound one.”

“Oh, would it?” _Sire_ Geller scowled. “And what about your _Labyrinth_? You had a colonization ship built in all secrecy, and at high costs that would have been enough for the building of a brand new Battlestar!”

“Yes, we have,” _Sire_ Ixion replied calmly. “And, unlike your music academy, the _Labyrinth_ has saved four thousand five hundred lives… lives that otherwise would have been lost. Or would we have been able to find place for four and a half thousand people within the Fleet, had the _Labyrinth_ not been ready and stocked?”

“Certainly not,” Adama replied. “Neither would we have been able to save half as many lives as we did, had we not had the Gemini freighters at our disposal. If we had time…”

“But we hadn’t, and that is the real source of our disturbances,” _Siress_ Tinia pointed out. “We _must_ obtain fuel and food; that’s our only solution. Otherwise, we’ll all perish – slowly and gradually, as our supplies run out.”

Serina found herself nodding to that clever and practical analysis. _Siress_ Tinia might not have been an aristocrat, born and bred to lead people, but she obviously had the common sense and the organizing skills of an experienced merchant. One could only hope she wouldn’t suffer irrevocable brain damage from all that exposure to old-line politicians.

“We also have to convert our ships to make them able to travel a great deal faster, and leave behind those that cannot be converted,” Commander Xaviar added.

“That would mean crowding ourselves together even more!” _Sire_ Uri protested. “Conditions are already intolerable.”

“Yes, Uri, we all know how you were suffering on the Elite level of the _Rising Star_ ,” _Siress_ Belloby countered with false sweetness.

“Intolerable indeed,” Commander Xaviar snorted. “Adama, I do think we should follow your proposal that we pool our stock of fuel and send on the _Galactica_ and the most capable ships of our rag-tag fleet ahead in order to obtain fuel and supplies for the rest of us.”

“Ships left behind?” _Sire_ Uri shouted, very real panic mirroring on his face, as it was clear the _Rising Star_ wouldn’t be one of those most capable ships, being an unarmed luxury liner as she was. “Adama, just how many ships do you propose we send on this fool… on this foraging mission?”

“Commander Xaviar has the hard figures on that, Councillor Uri,” Adama replied calmly.

All eyes turned to the Sagittaran Warlord, who shrugged and spoke brusquely.

“About one third of the present Fleet. There’s just that amount of fuel to be spread around… and that’s a bit of thin spreading, ladies and gentlemen.”

“Thin spreading indeed!” _Sire_ Uri said darkly. “I say this is just a ploy for you and the other warriors to escape the rest of us; leave us here, without fuel, to die slowly.”

“I’m sorely tempted as far as _you_ are concerned,” Commander Xaviar replied bluntly. “However, what I _do_ consider are the hard facts, and the basic truth is: as things stand, there’s no sufficient fuel to get the entire Fleet anywhere. We must let those few who _can_ seek out a solution to do so.”

“Why am I not surprised that the two ranking military officers are of one mind about this?” _Sire_ Uri sneered. “I’m not certain you’re not deceiving us in tandem… with that old war daggit, Kronus, watching your back.”

“That was uncalled for,” _Sire_ Anton interrupted, shedding the disguise of the dotardly old man for a _micron_ and letting a glimpse of _tylinium_ steel glint beneath the surface. “You know better than that, _Sire_ Uri; you’re just being contrary on principle.”

“Ah, are you in league with them, too, Anton?” the Leonid asked in a wounded tone that would have been ridiculous, hadn’t it had a faint threatening edge.

 _Sire_ Anton didn’t seem particularly frightened, though. He simply rolled his eyes in the manner of a long-suffering grandfather.

“Gentlemen, please,” Adama interrupted, before their argument could have gotten out of hand completely. “Hear me out.”

“You sound very authoritarian for a leader who’s just resigned,” _Sireadvice_ , then,” _Sire_ Uri sneered. “I’m anxious to hear it, Commander.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“I wish I could make him disappear,” Apollo muttered.

He only meant it for Serina, but Omega, whose ears were sharp like those of a _leporid_ ’s, caught the tail end of it, and he nodded sagely.

“It’s bad enough having to cope with ignorant opposition on a meeting like this,” he commented, “even though _Sire_ Ixion and Commander Xaviar can at least understand the ramifications. I think, however, that _Sire_ Uri is merely a boisterous crook who would never listen to reason anyway. This is his way to get back to you for arresting him.”

“And a fat lot of good that arrest did,” Apollo scowled.

Omega raised a superior eyebrow. “It probably did more good than you’d believe. The younger generation – those who used to be devoted to him – has already begun to drift away. Of course, it will take time before _that_ would bring our people any good, but,” he shrugged elegantly, “the tendency is there.”

“Careful,” Serina warned them, “or the recording device would pick up your voices instead that of the Commander.”

The two young officers exchanged rueful looks and turned their attention back to the Council meeting… just in time.

“I propose,” Adama was saying, “that we send our best ships to Carillon, for the purpose of obtaining fuel and food.”

“Carillon?” _Sire_ Uri repeated, a curious sarcasm colouring his voice. “Why in the Twelve Worlds an abandoned outpost like Carillon?”

“Carillon was once the object of a mining expedition from our colony,” _Sire_ Lobe said thoughtfully. “One of our mineral ships found rich sources of _Tylium_.”

“But, if I recall correctly, it was abandoned as impractical to mine,” _Sire_ Uri pointed out.

He was obviously prepared. Either his spies had obtained Adama’s plan before the meeting – the ways used to achieve _that_ would have been worth investigating – or his people were very good at picking up possible destinations that would provide for the needs of the Fleet.

“Yes, but only because there was no local labour and it was too far away from the colonies to make shipping profitable,” _Siress_ Tinia replied, all business. She seemed very much in her own, which was understandable; this was her area of expertise. “However, the exegencies of commerce need not concern us now. It’s not like we’d want to get the fuel back to our lost homeworlds,” she added bitterly.

“Yet the same problems still do exist,” _Sire_ Uri countered, and as much as one might dislike him as a person, it would have been hard to prove him wrong in that particular matter. “Carillon is too far away. Too many disasters could occur to our ships and people left behind.”

“In all fairness, I must admit that there’s some truth in that,” _Sire_ Anton said in concern. “Do you have a different suggestion, Uri?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” the Leonid rose with flourish and walked over to the transparent star map. “I suggest that we cross Sector Sigma – with the _entire_ Fleet – and land here, on Borallus. It’s closer, an we know everything we need is there. Food, water, fuel.”

“And undoubtedly a Cylon task force,” Adama commented dryly.

“It could be fatal to let down our camouflage shield and attempt landing on Borallus,” Commander Xaviar supported him.

“ _Possibly_ fatal,” _Sire_ Uri emphasized. “To me, it seems _surely_ fatal to use Carillon as destination.”

Many of the councillors clearly agreed with his proposal – and not only his usual allies. The idea of leaving behind the slower ships seemed to frighten everyone, and there was an agreement about the fact that they didn’t have the fuel needed to travel around several sectors to reach Carillon.

“Carillon is our only hope,” Adama argued. “Gentlemen – and ladies,” he added, nodding towards the female Councillors, “you must understand that the situation has reached critical level much sooner than we’d anticipated. Rations have already been cut by two-thirds, and the agroships are still _sectons_ away from the first harvest. We cannot afford to squabble any longer. We must act, and we must be able to present our plan of action to our people unanimously.”

“Unanimity meaning just being your echo, of course,” _Sire_ Uri replied bitterly, but he did sit down.

“Certainly not!” _Sire_ Domra protested angrily. “I will never condone any plan that includes leaving our slower ships behind.”

“Neither would I,” _Sire_ Gamesh said forcefully. “When our people elected me to represent their interests as _Sire_ Togo's second, I’ve taken a solemn vow to do everything in my power to keep them alive. Leaving them behind, unprotected, is out of the question!”

The argument came to an impasse, with much shouting and counter-shooting, and fruitless efforts from the side of _Sire_ Anton – who’d been nominated as acting President in Adama’s stead – to calm the participants down. It seemed that they wouldn’t come to any solution, though… until Apollo rose and said in a clear voice that carried across the Council chamber.

“There is another way.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The councillors, who’d apparently forgotten about his presence, fell in shocked silence at that and looked at him expectantly.

“There is another way,” he repeated. “If I may have a _micron_ of your time?”

To his surprise, _Sire_ Uri wasn’t the first to protest. It was _Siress_ Tinia, of all people… perhaps not so surprisingly, after all. Not being nobly born, she’d always guarded her privileges jealously.

“You have no vote in this Council, Captain,” she reminded him.

“Of course not,” Apollo readily agreed. “All I intend to make an alternate suggestion – one that might point at a way out of this impasse.”

 _Sire_ Anton looked at _Sire_ Ixion; the Gemoni aristocrat shrugged.

“It can do no harm, I suppose,” he said. “We _do_ need a solution.”

“Very well,” _Sire_ Anton turned to Apollo in a grandfatherly manner. “Tell us about your idea, my boy. You have the Council’s full attention.”

“I support Commander Adama’s rejection of Borallus,” Apollo began.

“Surprising,” _Sire_ Uri commented, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“It is a death trap, as lethal as the one we left behind,” Apollo continued, ignoring the remark. He hurried down from the gallery, over to the star map. “ _And_ we haven’t got the armament to fight… not any possible Cylon forces alone, but also any possible surviving Nomes who might not be overly enthusiastic to share what’s left of their resources with a fleet of starving people. It could lead to a massacre, on either side.”

“That’s, unfortunately, true,” Commander Xaviar agreed. “Even if vastly outnumbered, the Nomes could cause heavy casualties, should it come to an armed confrontation. Do continue, Captain. I am eager to hear your alternate solution.”

“It’s a relatively simple one,” Apollo said. “There is another approach to Carillon. Instead of using the intended route,” he showed said route on the star map, using his fingers to trace a possible path around at least three or four sectors, ”which takes us _sectons_ out of our way, I suggest we take the direct path,” he paused for effect and made a sweeping motion with his hand over an area marked in red, somewhere in the middle of the map. “Through the Nova of Madigan. Not patrolled, and a saving of _sectons_ in reaching Carillon.”

There was a stunned silence in the Council chamber, and then _Sire_ Anton recovered enough to speak up.

“Captain, I may not be a military expert, but I _do_ know that the Cylons don’t _have_ to patrol that particular area,” he said, “because they mine it. They lay mines that make passage impossible.”

Commander Xaviar nodded in grim agreement.

“It _is_ impossible for cumbersome ships like ours to even attempt to go through that narrow passage,” he said, and Adama nodded, too.

“I know that,” Apollo said. “The Fleet could not travel the channel… unless it had been cleared first.”

“And how would you propose doing that?” _Sire_ Anton asked doubtfully.

Apollo shrugged with deliberate lightness.

“Well, I suggest I find one or two volunteers to join me in flying ahead of the Fleet in our Vipers to blow the mine field apart with laser torpedoes,” he said simply.

“Good idea,” Commander Xaviar agreed promptly, while _Sire_ Gamesh shook his sleek, dark head in doubt.

“Two volunteers? With Tigh no longer flying fighter craft? Forget it, Captain. You’ll never be able to do that.”

“Try me,” Apollo replied calmly.

“Out of the question!” Adama protested. “Out of the question!”

 _Sire_ Uri, however, looked like the _felix_ that had just got into the cream.

“Brilliant, brilliant,” he declared. “If we _must_ go straight away, as you say, Adama, then this is the way,” he looked around at his colleagues with a benevolent smile. “I say we support the captain.”

 _Sire_ Anton giggled again. “Good for you, my boy. Good for you. As grave a plan as it is, it appears to be our only hope. You have the support and the blessing of the _Quorum of Twelve_.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“And with that and two _cubits_ he can buy a cup of weak _kava_ in the Officers Club,” Omega commented cynically, while the members of the _Quorum_ enthusiastically applauded.

“Did he really have to do that?” Serina asked. “To volunteer for such a dangerous mission?”

Omega shrugged. “Knowing the power play going on in the background, perhaps it’s a good thing – assuming that he’ll survive, that is. The truth is, he’s been getting a lot of flak lately. As much as he’s proved himself over and over in the eyes of the military, there are still people within the Council – or outside it – who attribute his rise through the ranks as well executed nepotism. When he arrested _Sire_ Uri, he and his allies accused him of a political ploy, threatening to appropriate the _Rising Star_ simply to collect fuel for the _Galactica_.”

“They can’t truly believe it!” Serina protested.

Omega shrugged again. “Whether they truly believe it or not, it’s of secondary importance. That’s what they’re spreading, and the sooner that particular tooth is pulled, the better.”

“By getting himself killed?” Serina asked. “For an abandoned outpost that might not even be worth the try?”

The Flag Lieutenant leaned closer to him. “I believe it is. Since you’re making the official records, let me tell you this: at Apollo’s request, we’ve made a long-range sensor survey of the minefield and discovered something interesting. Every mined satellite is firmly in orbit. No sign of a decaying orbit anywhere.”

“Which means what exactly?” Serina, not being military herself, was a little confused.

“It implicates that the minefield is maintained on a regular basis; and that in order to do so, there has to be somebody down there on Carillon’s surface.”

“Does it also mean there’s a good chance they’re mining _Tylium_ , then?” Serina asked.

“Sure,” Omega replied. “They’ve got to be doing something important to bother with all this protection.”

Serina pulled a face. “I’m not sure it makes me feel any better. Whom, do you think, Apollo has in mind as volunteers?”

“Oh, that’s not a question at all,” Omega smiled. “There are only two who’d stand a chance to survive a mission like that: Lieutenants Starbuck and Boomer.”

Starbuck again. Serina found that she was getting annoyed by that name. Clearly, the blond pilot and Apollo were all but joined at the hip. She’d have her work cut out for her if she wanted to separate them enough to focus the captain’s attention on herself and on Boxey. But she would, eventually. She would _not_ share him with anyone, the least with another man. Not even if he was _flit_ , which she didn’t truly believe. There was definite interest in his eyes when he looked at her.

And it wasn’t so as if there would have been many socially suitable women of the right age that he could have married. In fact, there were none; Serina knew that. She’d checked the list of the survivors _very_ carefully and realized that in the eyes of blood-conscious nobility, she might actually count as a good catch. Yes, she _was_ born out of a _mésaliance_ , but at least her _mother_ was pure-blooded Caprican. From a lesser House, granted, but nobly-born nonetheless. And even Commander Adama had spoken of Lyra with respect. It was reasonable to expect that Lyra’s daughter would be an acceptable choice for him.

If only Apollo wouldn’t get himself killed by a Cylon mine before she could have confessed him her past choices and received absolution. She would, of that she had little doubt… if he lived long enough to give it to her. What was that stupid flyboy _thinking_ anyway, volunteering for such a mission? Wasn’t that what cannon fodder was for?


	11. Chapter 9 - Fathers and Sons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, I go with the original concept, so Boxey isn't actually Serina's son. The confrontation between Apollo and Adama is based on a deleted scene from the pilot.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 09 – FATHERS AND SONS**

Commander Adama must have formed a similar opinion concerning Apollo’s most recent stunt, because he all but exploded into his son’s face, as soon as the last _Quorum_ member left the Council chamber.

“And just what were you thinking, volunteering for a mission like that?” he demanded. “ _Sire_ Uri must be laughing up his sleeve.”

“Is that what is worrying you about the mission?” Apollo retorted “That you might have been made to look foolish by Uri?” His father stared at him in silent fury, and he hurriedly back-pedalled. “I’m sorry. I know better than that, but there was no other choice. You didn’t seem to have another plan. It was his way or mine.”

“Now, you see, he’s got us doing it,” Adama said, his fury not so silent any more. “Turning one against the other. If Uri weren’t such a prima donna, I’d say let him lead. But we must not allow ourselves to be fractioned off. There are too few of us left. A single voice is imperative.”

“But not _his_!” Apollo protested. “He’s only interested in himself! I don’t understand how he got elected to the _Quorum of Twelve_ back home – and _you_ voted for him!”

Adama turned away from him, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“You should have known him, back in the Renaissance days of Caprica,” he murmured. “He was one of the best. A builder, an architect of dreams… Now he just sits and decays himself with drink and remembrance. No wonder our world fell apart.”

Serina wanted to applaud him. Yes, _that_ was the _Sire_ Uri she still remembered: a generous patron of ambitious young men and women, a leader and visionary. Not the sad failure that was now vegetating aboard the _Rising Star_ , letting people starve, in fear of not having enough for himself anymore.

Apollo, however, had no such memories, and he didn’t seem to be in a particularly understanding mood. In truth, he sounded downright judgemental.

“Looking back is contagious,” he declared angrily. “Decay and corruption go hand in hand with defeatism and lack of action. Uri moved in because you failed to act; to have alternatives to his plans.”

Adama stiffened as if his son had unexpectedly hit him in the face. Which Apollo had done, in a sense.

“I believe it is sometimes… prudent to steer away from the flames, once you’ve been badly burned,” he finally said, sounding terribly old and almost broken.

But Apollo wasn’t in the mood to listen, either. “And _I’d_ say you’d better look around more carefully,” he retuned. “You’re nursing wounds while we’re still in the fire.”

And with that, he stormed off; presumably to find those volunteers for the suicidal mission he’d just suggested the _Quorum_ himself.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Serina remained alone with the Commander in the Council chamber – Omega had executed a strategic retreat right at the beginning of the argument between father and son – and was now seeking desperately for the right words to comfort the old man. Despite her extensive training as a media personality, she failed. Compassion was not her strongest feature, and she knew that. Boxey had been the exception, not the rule – he’d filled the empty space left behind by little Madoc’s death, and that was the reason why she’d responded to him so strongly.

“Commander… I’m sorry,” she finally offered, with as much feeling as she could manage.

Those wise old eyes turned to her with understanding.

“Oh, I do not blame him,” Adama said heavily. “He was not entirely wrong, you know. I did _not_ have an alternate plan to counteract Uri’s plotting. I hoped that the Council would listen to reason.”

“Some of them did,” Serina reminded him, and he nodded.

“Some… but not all of them. Not even enough of them. And if we don’t stand as a united front behind the decisions made by the Council, our people would cease to follow us.”

“Then Captain Apollo’s plan worked to serve your purpose,” Serina pointed out. “We _are_ going to Carillon, are we not? _All_ of us.”

Adama did not answer at once, his strategic mind preoccupied with the dangerous task before them already.

“I hope so,” he finally said. “I just hope I won’t be losing my only remaining son, too, in order to get us there.”

He sighed and gave her a surprisingly warm, almost fatherly smile. “I am so glad that he found you,” he added. “He’s been so unhappy over the deaths of Zack and his mother; he needed a friend like you.”

“I’m not so certain I can call myself his friend just yet,” Serina answered honestly. “I like him just fine, and he’s been very generous to both me and Boxey, but whether that would make us friends…”

“Given enough time, it will,” Adama said. “Friends… and more, perhaps. Or that is my hope, at least.”

Serina was baffled. Was he courting her on his son’s behalf?

“You wouldn’t object?” she asked in surprise. “I’m sure you’ve had something else in mind for your heir. Someone more… socially suitable.”

The old man shrugged tiredly.

“Does birth truly matters now, after the world as we’d used to know it has ended in the blink of an eye in blood and fire?” he asked. “Besides, he’d shown so little interest in the ladies before that I’d have accepted just about _any_ love interest, as long as she was halfway suitable,” he shrugged again. “Perhaps that, too, has been my fault. He’s my heir; I always had the highest expectations towards him… and he grew to meet them each time. Perhaps my expectations were too high. Perhaps I should have allowed him to actually _live_ a little from time to time.”

“You only wanted the best for him.” Serina tried to be supportive, but it was hard. She knew better than anyone how… destructive the expectations of Caprican nobility could be towards their own children. Especially towards firstborn sons.

“It wouldn’t be the first time I found out that my best hadn’t been good enough,” Adama replied dryly; then he laid a hand upon her arm. “But you… you are good for him. _Boxey_ is good for him. He’s so guilt-ridden about Zac’s death he’d throw his life away just to free himself from that guilt. Do you believe you could give him a reason to wish to stay alive?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Serina admitted. “He’s not an easy man to read.”

Adama smiled down at her. “I know. Sometimes I, too, have a hard time to read him. But trust me in _this_ : he and you and Boxey could have a good life together. The question is: could _you_ imagine a life, Sealed to a warrior who’d spend considerably more time in the cockpit of his Viper than in your bed?”

Serina could barely trust her ears. The old Commander had all but proposed in his heir’s stead – who still didn’t have as much as a hunch about his good fortune, all planned out by his father.

“It depends on the warrior,” she replied with a coy smile.

But the Commander remained deadly serious.

“Would you give it some thought?” he asked. “For an old man’s sake, who’s worried about the future of his only son – assuming that there _will_ be a future to begin with?”

Serina pretended to hesitate, even though she could barely believe her own luck. The old man was offering her everything she could have dreamed of on a silver tablet.

“I’ll… think about it,” she said after what she thought would be a proper pause.

She tried _not_ to feel guilty when she saw the old man’s eyes lit up with hope.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
To her surprise she found Apollo waiting for her in the corridor that led to her modest little quarters.

“Apollo!” she smiled at him and saw him relax, just a little bit. “Is there something I can do for you? You look so sad. What bothers you – beyond the obvious, I mean.”

Apollo sighed. “Father’s decision hit me quite hard, to be honest. I can understand his motivation, but I’m afraid it will lead to new problems. None of the temporary _Quorum_ have ever made any experience with leading people, save for _Sire_ Uri, and _he_ isn’t necessarily the person I’d trust with the fate of the Fleet.”

“I’m sorry,” Serina said. “I wish I could cheer you up somehow; but the sad truth is, _Sire_ Uri is no longer the man I used to know when I was a young girl. The Destruction… it seems to have twisted him somehow.”

“I think he was pretty twisted before the destruction already,” Apollo said darkly. “The fear just brought his worst side to the surface. But let us not discuss politics now. I’ve something that might cheer _you_ up… or, at least Boxey, which is the same in the long run, isn’t it?”

“Tonight?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you get some rest? The mission you’re going to…”

He waved off her concern. “I’ll sleep better after we solved Boxey’s problem.”

She raised an elegant eyebrow at that. “That’s a tall order, Captain, my Captain.”

He shrugged. “I’m a big boy. How’s he doing anyway?”

“He’s still having his moods from time to time,” she admitted. “Come in and see for yourself. Child Care has just had him brought home.”

They found Boxey lying on the lower level of the double bunk (which was supposed to be Serina’s bed). He looked strangely listless again, as if the excitement of the recent days had burned out already. At least he was willing to look at Apollo.

“Get up, young warrior, and come with me,” Apollo ordered in a crisp military manner. “You and me, we have a mission tonight.”

Boxey looked over to Serina. “Do I hafta, Mommy?”

“Yes, you do,” Apollo replied sternly. “You’re a Colonial warrior, albeit a really small one; and orders are orders. Come!”

The boy reluctantly took his proffered hand and got up.

They had some trouble keeping up with him as he strode through the corridors that all seemed to be alike, but in his current mood Serina didn’t want to ask him to slow down. She practically dragged Boxey after her, tracing a circuitous route to an area of the ship that she’d never seen before; neither could she remember having seen it on they blueprints.

They stopped at a door marked _Droid Maintenance Laboratory_ , and Apollo said. “There it is.” 

Smiling at the confusion on Serina’s face, he ushered her and Boxey into the lab. Immediately in front of them was a row of droids, propped up against a wall, all of them obviously switched off. Some of them had been opened up and various wires dangled from the regions of their barrel-shaped midsection and numerous limbs.

“What are these?” Serina asked.

“Droids,” Apollo said with a shrug. “Mechanical constructs designed to simulate human or animal…”

“I _know_ what droids are,” she interrupted. “I thought they were banned, though.”

“On Caprica, they were,” Apollo admitted. “Capricans didn’t believe in using mechanical substitutes for human effort. A noble philosophy, but…”

“I don’t know about philosophy,” Serina said, “but I do know, in the few experiences I’ve had with droids on Scorpia, I’m uncomfortable perceiving human traits in something that turns out not to be human at all.”

“I think you’re wrong, but under the circumstances it’s not a worthwhile discussion to pursue. Let me just say that droids have become a necessity for spacecraft. They can tuck themselves into niches that bulkier humans can’t reach and they can perform minor repair jobs on the surface of the ship or in atmospheres we can’t breathe,”

A silver-haired, white-clad man with sharp, patrician features came through the door in that very _micron_. His face lit up when he recognized Apollo.

“Ah, Captain Apollo!” he exclaimed with a certain enthusiasm. “Right on time. We’ve been expecting you. Is this the young officer who’s been put in charge of the new project?”

Boxey, surprised at the attention from this stranger, clutched Serina’s hand tightly and tried to hide behind her skirt. Apollo grinned at the man.

“Well, Doctor Wilker, I haven’t had time to fully discuss the project with him. It’s our hope he’ll accept, though.”

Boxey pulled on Serina’s skirt, clearly frightened. “Mommy, I wanna go back!” he whispered.

Apollo looked down at him with mock-seriousness, although his eyes were laughing.

“Boxey, this is a military order,” he said. “We have at least to hear the doctor out. Tell us more about the project, doctor.”

Dr. Wilker grinned at Boxey in the unmistakable manner of a man who finally got the chance to broach his favourite topic. Even Serina had to admit that his enthusiasm was somewhat… contagious. He must really have loved his job.

“Well, you see, we’ll soon be landing on various alien planets, and we cannot know what we’ll find there. It’s important that we be safe. Ordinarily, we’d have trained daggits to stand watch at night, when our people are asleep in their encampments, but we don’t have any daggits. So, we’ve had to see what we could come up with. We’ll call the first one Muffit Two.”

Boxey looked sideways at Apollo. “What’d he say?”

Apollo shrugged. “I don’t really get it all,” he turned to the scientist. “Doctor Wilker, maybe you’d better show us?”

Doctor Wilker ducked, his expression apologetic. He’d apparently forgotten that he’d been talking to a six- _yahren_ old. “Right, right, I’m sorry. Leon, come in!”

The call to his assistant was just a bit overdone, like in one of those children’s programmes on old vids. Leon, a young, dark-skinned man with a head shaved and smooth as a marble, came in at once, shepherding before him the strangest creature Serina had ever seen.

It was apparently meant to represent a daggit, but both in size and looks was more similar to a baby _ursus_ – with round, bulbous eyes of the size of saucers, small, curved ears that moved on their own (the soft whine of servos that moved them barely audible) and four identical legs that looked like metal columns covered with artificial fur. It was also bigger on all fours than any daggit that had ever lived on any of the Twelve Worlds – its head was almost at the same level as Boxey’s.

Leon pushed the daggit droid forward, and it immediately began to bark in a high-pitched, compellingly friendly tone. Actually, its visage was such that it would make the smallest child laugh: friendly, even though a little stupid. Moving to Boxey, it sat on its backside and poked the boy with its front paws, so that Boxey nearly fall over. The wagging of its tail was natural and convincing, unless you looked up close and could see that the tail protruded through a square hole at the back of the droid.

“Naturally,” Dr. Wilker said, “the first one will have to be looked after very carefully.

Boxey backed a couple of steps away from the eager daggit droid.

“That’s not Muffit,” he said accusingly. “It’s not even a real daggit!”

“No,” Dr. Wilker admitted softly. “But it can learn to be like a real one. It’s very smart. If you’d help us, it will be even smarter.”

Despite his mild disappointment about the daggit’s mechanical nature, Boxey couldn’t take his eyes off it. With the first hint of a smile in several days, he took another couple of steps backward from the daggit, who looked up quizzically and turned its ears. The boy started to cross the room, and the droid ran after him in a somewhat awkward manner that seemed as clumsy as it was endearing.

“We used the image of Boxey you gave us to train the droid to respond him,” Wilker whispered to Apollo and Serina.

Boxey stopped walking and turned to look down at the droid. Slowly he opened his arms. The droid moved forward, sat up on its hind legs and put its paws on the boy’s chest. The trying-out period was over. Boxey hugged the daggit and smiled back at the three watching adults.

Apollo smiled at Wilker and said. “That’s one I owe you, Doc.”

“Any time,” Wilker said, his eyes a bit misty, making Serina wonder whether he’d lost any children or younger siblings in the Destruction. After all, it wasn’t exactly natural that the head scientist of the entire Fleet – and Wilker’s name had been a well-known one even before, he’d often appeared on Transmission to explain new scientific discoveries to the interested audience – would waste his time making mechanical pets for lost little boys.

As they followed Boxey and his new pet into the corridor, Serina whispered to Apollo. “That’s one I owe you, Apollo.”

Apollo smiled at her, looking happier than she’d seen ever since they’d first met on the surface of bombed-out Caprica. “Any time.”

“You look quite smug, you know that?” she teased.

He shrugged, still smiling, but softer now, in a way that was almost intimate. “If you say so.”

“But I’ll kiss you anyway.”

And she did, not caring that they were in a public corridor and anyone could have turned around a corner and caught them in the act.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Captain Apollo did not make it back to his own quarters to get proper rest on that afternoon. They brought Boxey back to the Child Care Centre for past-midday education – where he became the envy of all children because of his mechanical daggit – and then they returned to Serina’s modest room, where they made desperate love for a _centare_ or two.

At first Serina was a bit surprised that a man with Apollo’ stiff upbringing could unbend enough to have casual sex with anyone of his own social circle – well, slightly _beneath_ his own, but still – since as a devout Kobolian, the Commander probably wouldn’t have sanctioned such liberties. If one was the heir of a Great House of Caprica, one did not prey on those below one’s own rank yet still from noble blood. That was something Not Done… even though _some_ people obviously indulged themselves in such practices, as she knew from first-hand experience. Still, it was considered unworthy of a true patrician.

Professionals were a different matter, of course, yet Serina had the impression that Apollo couldn’t have employed their services all too often. He turned out endearingly simple in his lovemaking… she’d even risk to say that he was fairly inexperienced. Not entirely so, no… he was a good kisser, and seemed to know the movements he was supposed to go through, at the very least. But he was also easily embarrassed for a grown man, and some of her actions clearly amazed him – almost shocked.

Which had both its advantages and its disadvantages. On the plus side, she could easily make him dependant on her with pleasure. She’d been trained by an Aquarian, after all, and Patroclus had been highly skilled and very imaginative, even as Aquarians go. On the other side, she’d have her work cut out for her to train Apollo, so that their married life wouldn’t become deathly dull very quickly. Add the responsibility of an important, yet decidedly not glorious job and the rising of a child not even her own, she could have easily gotten more than she’d bargained for.

In the end, however, the advantages clearly outweighed the disadvantages – especially as he seemed to have developed almost paternal feelings for Boxey already. And so when she did let him out a couple of _centares_ later – after a quick check that no-one would see him leave her quarters – she quietly congratulated herself for landing on her feet again, more so than ever before.

Granted, he wasn’t the kind of man she’d have picked under normal circumstances. But he was handsome, of the highest social status one could find in the entire Fleet, he seemed besotted with her – _and_ he was apparently very fond of Boxey. He’d do just nicely… _if_ she managed to get her hooks into him properly.

The fact that his father so obviously approved would serve to her advantage as well. Despite their recent, heated arguments, Apollo clearly respected his father enormously and would go a long way to please him… and giving the old man an heir would be among the first things Adama would want from him. Things were looking reasonably good – unless he managed to get himself killed by a Cylon mine tomorrow.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the next morning Serina was called to the Viper deck - in her function as the Fleet’s official chronist - to witness the three pilots selected for the dangerous mission being seen off by the Commander. Apollo had chosen Lieutenants Starbuck and Boomer indeed, just as Lieutenant Omega had predicted, and while Boomer simply seemed nervous and unhappy, Starbuck moved around with great care, as if he were in pain.

“What happened to him?” Serina asked Deitra who, like many other pilots, had come to see the heroes of the day off.

The shuttle pilot from the _Atlantia_ grinned. “Athena happened. It seems Starbuck has picked up a _socialator_ from one of the Gemini freighters and brought her over to the _Galactica_ for medical treatment…”

Serina nodded. “I know. I saw them at Life Station while waiting for my check-out.”

“Really?” Deitra’s _kava_ brown eyes lit up with interest. “What is she like?”

Serina considered the question for a moment. “Blond. Pretty. Wearing a clinging outfit that would become transparent in the right light. Doubtlessly shrewd enough to use any situation to her advantage. What _socialators_ are like. So, what happened?”

Deitra’s grin grew from ear to ear. “Apparently, Athena caught them on one of the monitors as they were rolling around in a launching tube, half-naked.”

“In a launching tube?” Serina whistled softly. “Imaginative.”

“Perhaps, but not very practical,” Deitra said. “Especially as the launching tubes are usually steam purged by remote control.”

Serina stared at the Libran woman in shock. “She didn’t…!”

“Oh yes, she did,” Deitra replied in deep satisfaction. “It was a long way coming for Starbuck, I’d say. He’s grown too comfortable with all his ex-girlfriends forgiving him, no matter what.”

“But how will he be able to fly in that condition?” Serina asked in concern. Not that she’d care for Starbuck, but if the blond pilot wasn’t in top form, that could have endangered Apollo, too. “His entire back must be raw!”

She _almost_ felt sorry for the man. Almost.

“Oh, they’ve fixed him up at Life Station well enough,” Deitra waved off her concern breezily. “Sure, he’s a little tender, and wearing a pressure suit must be hell right now; but I hope he’s learned his lesson: no double-teaming on the Commander’s daughter.”

“Remind me _never_ to make her mad at me,” Serina said, still shocked a little by the ruthless action of Athena. But again, she was a warrior. Trained to fight for what she considered dear… and _hers_. 

Deitra nodded in complete agreement, and then they watched the Commander see off the three pilots with a few heartfelt words.

“We don’t have time for elaborate searches,” he then told them. “You’ll have to navigate by scanner and sweep everything out of your path with turbo lasers. Any questions?”

“One, sir,” Starbuck, clearly as irrepressible as said about him, raised his hand. “My bio-pulse line says this is a bad time for me to be cooped up in a cockpit. Would this be an appropriate time for me to take my sick leave?”

Adama smiled. The other two pilots grinned nervously.

“It would,” the Commander said, “but request denied. You three control our fate. The rest of us will sit in anticipation of your skill.”

“Or the lack thereof,” Starbuck joked, and Adama rolled his eyes.

“Well,” Apollo said, ”there’s no easy way to do this – so let us get out there and do it.”

The other two nodded in agreement and went to their Vipers for a final check with the mechanics. The rest cleared the bay and went back to their respective stations to follow the progress on the viewscreens.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Serina wasn’t particularly surprised when the Commander invited her to Core Command, where she’d be able to see everything first-hand. It was her job to document the progress, after all. As she followed Adama and his entourage out of the Viper bay, however, she found herself walking next to Athena… who didn’t seem happy with the turn things had just taken.

“I can’t believe he’s doing this!” she ranted in a low voice; too low for the ears of anyone but Serina to hear. “Why couldn’t he have listened to the others, gone to Borallus, instead of this filthy and dangerous place?”

“He had his reasons,” Serina replied, just as quietly. “Sound reasons, as far as I can tell. Besides, do you think the Nomes would be pleased if a fleet of hungry people showed up on their doorstep? _If_ there are any Nomes left, that is?”

Athena couldn’t really dismiss that simple truth, but she wasn’t about to give up, either. Not yet.

“He’s taking such an awful chance with their lives!” she muttered bitterly.

Serina nodded. “Yes, he does. And they know that. They _volunteered_ … at least Apollo did. The others could have backed off without blame, I assume.”

“Yeah, because Starbuck would _ever_ back out of a dangerous mission!” Athena snorted.

Serina thought to understand her. After all, Athena was still a young girl who’d already lost half of her family. It was understandable that she’d cling to the loved ones that she still had.

“Is it your brother you’re worrying about – or rather Lieutenant Starbuck?” she asked.

Athena’s shoulders sagged suddenly as all the rage seemed to go out of her in a rush.

“It’s not just Starbuck. I’m worried about Apollo, too – you ought to know that by now. _And_ Boomer… he’s such a good, solid man, such a good friend. It’s just that – oh, I don’t even _know_ what it really is!”

 _Was I ever this young?_ Serina wondered, but out loud she said, choosing her words carefully.

“Well, if you love Lieutenant Starbuck, you’re naturally…”

“I hate that little tramp!” Athena burst out. It was a remarkably… controlled outburst, Serina found, but the sentiment behind it seemed genuine.

“You’ll have to fight for you man, then,” she replied. “I don’t think that would be so hard for you… what I’ve heard, you _are_ a fighter. And you can even fight dirty, which is a good thing. With such an adversary, you’ll _have_ to fight dirty.”

The pale cheeks of Adama’s daughter coloured a little. “Where have you heard that?”

“The only thing that travels faster than light in this universe is gossip,” Serina replied, smiling. “Lieutenant Deitra was so impressed with your action that she felt the need to share.”

“I’m not proud of what I’ve done, myself,” Athena admitted glumly. “I used to think I could cure myself of Starbuck, get a pill from Life Station or something and forget about him. But when I saw them, writhing around in a launching tube, half-naked… my rage just went through with me.”

“Why would you want to forget him?” Serina asked. “Especially now, when everything we still have is each other, shouldn’t we cling to the few loved ones we still have?”

“I don’t know,” Athena sighed. “I’m very disturbed, and I don’t know what to think. It’s this war, and the Destruction; our home planets gone, and this desperate voyage to a place where we don’t know what we’ll find…”

“You don’t trust the judgement of your father?” Serina asked carefully. Athena shrugged.

“Oh, I do… as a rule. He _has_ saved us all, hasn’t he? But we’ve been on this voyage for some time now, and everything is in a different perspective. Hopeless. That’s why I’m so frightened about this… this mission. Everything has been hopeless since… since Cimtar. Assuming they survive this… assuming _any_ of us survive, what next? Will we find this Earth Father claims is _not_ a myth?”

“Perhaps not,” Serina allowed. She could hear some of her own doubts mirrored in Athena’s words all too clearly.

“I was thinking _that_ ,” Athena nodded grimly. “We could grow old waiting. I mean, we may never have the chance… the chance to… to…”

“To form permanent relationships, have children and a home?” Serina finished for her. _Lords, but she’s so young!_

Athena nodded. “Yes. A Battlestar is not the place to raise children – nor are most of the other ships, for that matter. But if we cannot raise the next generation to take over our heritage, why go such lengths to survive in the first place? Just to live out the rest of our lives in our flying coffins?”

Her voice was bitter and resigned, a chilling contrast to her youth and beauty.

“It’s too soon for you to be concerned about old age,” Serina answered lightly. “Let’s deal with it one step a time. Let’s hope we manage to find food and fuel on Carillon – that would enable us to continue our journey… and give us hope to find, if not the mythical Earth, then a place where we can settle and recover.

Athena gave her a doubtful look. “You really believe that?”

Serina shrugged. “I have to; or else I could simply walk out of the nearest airlock. And whatever happened, I’m not ready to die just yet.”

“No-one is at the dawn of new love,” Athena smiled, and Serina realized that young though she might be, there wasn’t much happening aboard the _Galactica_ that she wouldn’t find out sooner or later.

It was her home, after all. And being a bridge officer apparently had its perks.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They reached the bridge at that point, and the discussion stopped. Athena hurried over to the sensors to take her station. Serina was guided to a semi-separated little niche near the Commander’s office, where she could make her records undisturbed. 

The Commander himself, with Colonel Tigh on his side, stood on the rotating command deck. Below, Flight Corporal Rigel was going through the pre-flight check with the three pilots. She, too, seemed awfully young with her long braids doubled back on both sides of her head, in the fashion of her now-gone home planet. There could be no doubt that she originated from Virgon.

“Vipers Blue One through Three, pre-flight check is finished,” she said in her gentle, child-like voice. “All systems show up green. Launch when ready.”

“I am ready,” came the cool sound of Apollo's voice. “What about you, Starbuck?”

“I’m _not_ ready,” Starbuck said with emphasis, “but let’s get it over with anyway.”

“Blue Three ready,” Boomer’s sturdy voice said, his slight Leonid accent thicker than usual, perhaps due to the pressure.

There was a short, tense pause, then the launch lights came on, and the three ships catapulted into space. Establishing a neat triangular formation, they headed for the minefield.

“I’m going in for preliminary scouting,” Apollo said.

“Good luck,” Boomer and Starbuck answered simultaneously.

“Don’t jinx me with good wishes,” Apollo said, laughter in his voice. “It could turn against me.”

“Yeah, sure,” Starbuck replied in the same manner. “Just make a sweep by the nearest thing; we’ll be right behind you.”

Watching the three asterisks symbolizing the three Vipers move towards the minefield, Serina found herself prying fervently to all and any Lords of Kobol that might listen to watch over the three pilots and help them through this dangerous task in one piece.

At least she _hoped_ they would listen. After the Destruction, nobody could be all that sure about that any longer. Not even the devout Kobolians who took the _Book of the Word_ quite literally.


	12. Chapter 10 - Carillon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The clearing the way through the Nova of Madigan differs from the version shown in the pilot episode. I chose to follow the novelization. Also, the origin of the Cylons has my own twist, so it shouldn’t be considered canonical.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 10 – CARILLON**

“Nova starfield ahead,” Colonel Tigh announced, turning towards the huge front window.

Serina followed his look and saw a curved red veil, shaped like the blade of an antique scimitar from Aries, with a particularly bright star as the pommel stone, lying across the blackness of space. It was a beautiful sight – and a terrible one.

“Radiation shield positive,” Commander Adama ordered.

Altair, the curly-headed bridge officer at Tactical, threw some switches, and the heavy, impenetrable _thyllium_ shields lowered before the windows.

“Continue scanning the nova field,” Adama added. “You have a go, Blue One through Three.”

“Understood, Core Command,” Apollo’s crisp voice answered, and then there was silence for a couple of centons.

In the meantime, Lieutenant Omega signalled the Colonel to come over to his station, in order to show him something on his monitor. Tigh nodded and touched his headset that had been hotwired into the comm system.

“Listen to me, Blue One through Three,” he said. “There are three types of mines in that field: the normal, explosive type that can blast to smithereens any ship that comes into contact with it…”

“… plus any other craft within a _kilometron_ ’s radius,” Apollo finished for him. “Yes, Colonel, we know those from previous missions. What other sorts have the scanners detected?”

“The second kind seems to be more an instrument than a weapon,” Tigh explained, checking the monitor again. “Neither of us has ever seen any mine like this… if it _is_ , indeed, a mine. It has electronic equipment all over it. The technology clearly reads as Cylon, but we can’t really tell _what_ it is. However, it’s the third type that causes me the most headaches. Rather than exploding, it seems to send off flashes of light, the intensity of which is so concentrated that they would blind anyone unlucky enough to set it off. Like that stray micro-meteorite just a few _microns_ ago.”

“Which means, our pilots will have to fly the mission with their cockpits darkened,” the Commander added.

“ _What_?” Starbuck cried out in dismay. “Does it mean we’ll have to fly blind against all the mines, relying on our scanners to locate targets? Colonel, you can’t be serious!”

“Why, Starbuck, I thought you liked this kind of seat-of-the-pants flying,” Apollo teased him.

“Yeah, in _combat_ ,” Starbuck returned. “Not in a suicidal mine-detecting mission!”

“Don’t wet your pressure suit just yet,” Apollo laughed. “Let me make that first sweep, and then – Sagan!”

“Apollo!” Starbuck yelled. “What’s wrong?”

There was agonizing wait for an answer. Then, finally, the shaky voice of Apollo came over the comm system.

“I found out what the mysterious mines are. They’re not mines at all; they’re electronic jammers. As soon as I got near that one, everything in my Viper started going haywire – including the controls. I was able to wrestle back command of the controls and jerk my Viper out of its range, otherwise I think I’d have been sucked in and then, I don’t know, probably then it explodes. Come in carefully, guys!”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Skin temperature readout is one-zero-zero and rising,” Starbuck reported, his voice tense.

For a while, all three pilots were silent, and everyone watched the triangular formation’s careful approach to the nova field anxiously. Apollo went first, Starbuck after him, and Boomer directly behind.

“Hey, Boom-Boom,” Starbuck said, “don’t slipstream me.”

“Shows how much you know,” the Leonid muttered. “There’s no slipstream capability in spacecraft which…”

“I know, I know,” Starbuck replied good-naturedly. “We’ve got to stop you memorizing all those technical manuals in your bunk. I was using a figure of speech and you give me an Academy lecture. I mean, get out on your own.”

“Where to?” Boomer asked sarcastically. “I’m blind like a _chiropteran_ here, Bucko!”

In that very _micron_ , on Omega’s scanner monitor one of the light mines was activated near the symbol of Apollo’s Viper.

“Captain, are you all right?” Colonel Tigh asked in barely veiled concern.

“I’m fine,” Apollo replied. “Thanks the Lords of Kobol for the darkened cockpits, though, or else I’d be blind now. In fact, I _feel_ like I’m blind as it is. My scanner’s doing an erratic dance. I can’t see anything… and it’s getting hot, very hot in here. I think I’m veering off. Anyone can pick up the field on their scanners?”

“Negative,” Starbuck said. “My scanner’s burning up.”

“Mine’s gone,” Boomer added darkly.

“I was afraid of that,” Apollo said. “The jamming is playing havoc with our instruments.

“So what are we doing now?” Starbuck asked sarcastically. “Get out of our Vipers and take a look with our naked eyes?”

“Core system transferring control to _Galactica_ ,” Flight Corporal Rigel’s calm, even voice interrupted them. Serina was amazed how completely unfazed she sounded in the middle of the chaos. “We will guide you through, using onboard scanners.”

“What if we miss a mine?” Boomer asked, only half-joking.

“One of us will be the first to know it,” Apollo replied dryly. “You with me, friends?”

“I’m with you,” Boomer said, with a barely audible sigh in his voice.

“I’m with you, too,” Starbuck added, sounding almost excited.

“Great,” Apollo said. “Let’s go.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Everybody watched the monitor at the top of Omega’s console silently as the three Vipers angled through the minefield, which was now brightly lit by two activated light-mines.

“We’ll talk you through,” Rigel said encouragingly. “Countdown to fire: five-four-three… three degrees right…” 

Apollo fired his lasers. 

“Target destroyed,” Rigel told him. “One target coming up…”

Altair at Tactical was talking Starbuck through the movements, while a third bridge officer, whose name Serina didn’t know, was doing the same with Boomer. The three pilots were firing everything they had – with stunning accuracy, considering that they were doing it blindly. Mine after mine exploded and disappeared.

“It’s burning up!” Starbuck exclaimed after a painful yelp.

“Just keep firing,” Apollo replied through gritted teeth.

“Check on their vitals,” Colonel Tigh ordered Omega. “Use their core systems. Start with Boomer – he’s suspiciously quiet.”

“Heartbeat readout one-zero-zero, all other functions normal,” Omega reported after a short check.

Tigh nodded; then he turned to Adama. “I don’t know what to say, Commander, but it seems to be working. They’re clearing a path a hundred _maxim_ s wide.”

Athena turned away from her post and grinned at her father. “Now, _that_ ’s precision flying,” she declared, and everybody on the bridge grinned, recognizing the Commander’s favourite comment during Viper drills.

“I can’t see a blasted thing!” Starbuck’s voice came through the comm system. “Are we hitting anything at all?”

“Be hanged if I know,” Apollo replied.

“Countdown to fire,” Rigel interrupted them. “Three-two-one. Target destroyed. New target coming up…”

“Captain Apollo, heartbeat readout nine-nine,” Omega reported. “Skin temperature one hundred and twenty… and still rising.”

“It’s getting hot,” Starbuck was stating the glaringly obvious.

No-one answered him. All three pilots kept firing, their helpers on board the _Galactica_ directing them.

“Captain Apollo, heartbeat readout nine-nine,” Omega said, and Serina was stunned by the calmness of his voice; nothing seemed to bring the Flag Lieutenant off-balance. “Skin temperature one-thirty-five, slowly levelling off.”

“Yeah, it _is_ cooling off,” Apollo commented over the continued whining of the lasers, and Serina felt weak-kneed with relief. Could it be that they’d actually made it?

“Let’s take a look where we are,” the Commander glanced at Tigh.

“Negative shield, _now_!” the Colonel ordered.

Altair threw his switches again. The massive shields retracted, providing them with direct sight at a sector of space, filled with the still glowing gaseous remains of the destroyed mines… and in the middle of it, like a marble in the folds of a piece of red gauze, hung a planet.

“That is it,” Commander Adama said in deep satisfaction. “Carillon.”

“I believe we’ve made it,” Apollo declared in audible relief.

“Yahoo!” screamed Boomer, nearly deafening them all.

Cheering broke out all over the bridge. People jumped from their seats, slapping each other’s backs, laughing and crying at the same time. Athena pumped her fist in the air triumphantly.

“Yes!” she shouted. “We did it!”

Commander Adama and Colonel Tigh clasped forearms in the ancient warrior fashion, both smiling in pure joy. Then the Commander looked at Rigel.

“Recall the flight crew, Corporal,” he ordered.

Serina wanted to jump to her feet, to shout in joy and relief as the others had done… but she found she could not. Half-rising from her chair, she had to collapse back into it. She’d never felt so weak and overwhelmed in her entire life.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As soon as the heroes of the day returned to the _Galactica_ , Commander Adama ordered landing operations to begin immediately. The mineral scanners managed to locate the approximate site of the old mining expedition; the Mineral Ships and the landram parties were preparing to land.

Serina had been surprised when Apollo invited her and Boxey along to participate in the search of the fabled lost Tylium mines of Carillon. She’d never travelled in a landram before and was fascinated by the stocky vehicle that had been built to master just about every possible environment, carrying both people and cargo in impressive quantities.

Apollo operated the controls himself, driving both the large cargo shuttle and the landram, seeming supremely comfortable with the feel of them as they rode the air currents with barely noticeable shifts to right and left, up and down. He even offered to teach her how to drive a landram… which she thankfully refused. In the back seat Boxey played quietly with Muffit Two, the droid making funny, wheezing and surring noises as its servos moved its ears and maw.

Serina used the moment of quiet to address a topic she’d wanted to breach to him since the council meeting.

“I’d like to ask you something, Apollo, and I want you to be honest to me,” she began. “Why in Hades have you volunteered for this mission? There are a lot of skilled pilots aboard the _Galactica_ , but only one Strike Captain. Are you trying to prove something, or did it have anything to do with your brother?”

Apollo gave her an irritated look. His good mood seemed to evaporate within _microns_.

“Are you telling me that I’m being reckless to make up for leaving Zac behind?” he asked.

“Or trying to prove your worthiness to his ghost,” she replied quietly. “That you’ve deserved to survive while you couldn’t save _him_.”

Again, that irritated look. “How did you find out about Zac and me?”

She shrugged. “Asked around. Female shuttle pilots love to gossip.”

His look darkened from being irritated to downright angry. “I don’t appreciate that.”

She shrugged again. “Sorry. I was a newswoman on Caprica, remember? A prominent one at that. I can’t get out of the habit.”

He opened his mouth to say something that probably wouldn’t have been very friendly, but one of the survey pilots cut in over the comm system.

“Vector six-three-zero-thirty-eight to Ground Expedition Two. My scanners read life forms beyond these co-ordinates. Either it’s some high-energy yielding substance or they left some kind of caretaker expedition behind when they abandoned this place.”

“We’ve got it, zero-thirty-eight,” Lieutenant Boomer’s deep, pleasant voice answered. “Thanks a lot.”

“I wonder what this place looks like in the daytime,” another voice, higher and with a sarcastic undertone, commented. Serina recognized it as Lieutenant Starbuck’s.

“Starbuck,” Boomer replied with an audible sigh. “This _is_ daytime.”

There was a pregnant pause in the aether, and then Starbuck said languidly. “Lovely.”

Apollo shook his head in fond exasperation and cut in. “Landram One to Skywalk zero-thirty-eight, can you assist in locating Tylium mine?”

“You got it, Captain,” the pilot from before replied. “My scanner indicates that you’ll intersect the mine area in twenty-four _millicentons_.”

“Affirmative, zero-thirty-eight,” Apollo said and pulled a face. “Trust Killian to use the old metric system that hasn’t been in use for decades!”

“Everyone, synch chronometers,” another voice, one that Serina couldn’t at the moment recognize, interrupted. “Captain would like a check on in every ten _centons_. On an emergency frequency. Understood?”

“Affirmative, Jolly,” Starbuck’s voice answered.

“You’re in time-synch… _now_ ,” the fat pilot said. “Zero-thirty-eight returning to base. See you guys in a while. Good luck.”

“Thanks, Jolly,” Apollo said; then he smiled at Boxey. “Well, Boxey, time for your part of the mission. What I want you to do is to keep your eye on that readout. If the indicator gets into this coloured area, it means we’re right on top of a rich Tylium deposit.”

“Yes, sir,” the job assignment seemed to perk up the boy’s spirits. He climbed onto the front seat, between Apollo and Serina, and planted himself firmly in front of the readout screen.

Serina laughed. “Are you sure you don’t mind working with such a green crew?” she asked teasingly.

Apollo smiled back at her. “I chose you, didn’t I?”

“I d think, with your connections, you’d do better,” she continued lightly. His face darkened at that, and she hurriedly back-pedalled. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to touch any sore spots. You’re still upset your father resigned the presidency, aren’t you?”

“Stop being a newswoman and let’s concentrate on the mission,” Apollo replied with a forced smile. “We’ve got to get a lot done in a short time. We can't afford to stay on any one planet for too long.”

“Why?” Boxey looked up from the readout with anxious brown eyes of the size of saucers. “Why’d we have to leave home at all? Why do these people want to hurt us? What did we do to them?”

“It's not what we did to them,” Apollo explained, revealing unexpected insight into their arch enemy’s alien mindset. “It's what they fear we _could_ do. You see, they're not like us. They're machines created by living creatures a long, long time ago.”

Boxey looked at him with a frown that looked somewhat comical on his small face. “If they're machines, why don't we just turn them off?” he asked in the manner of a child who’d figured it all out and was exasperated by the slow-mindedness of the grown-ups

Apollo laughed softly. “Boy, I wish we could. But these machines aren't all that simple. You see, some machines are smart so that they can function better than a lot of living creatures.”

“They're not smart,” Boxes protested, apparently basing his opinion on his experiences with Muffit Two, who wasn’t the smartest droid indeed.

“In some ways they are,” Apollo corrected. “They're programmed to think a lot faster than we do… even though you wouldn’t always believe it when you see them in action. On the other hand, they're not as individual. We can do a little more of the unexpected. It's about the only advantage we have.”

“Why did we make them?” Boxey asked.

“We didn't,” Apollo replied with a sigh. “Another race did, a race of reptiles called Cylons. They had this urge most reptiles do – to be the strongest and most powerful in this quadrant of our galaxy. But while they were fast and smart, their bodies were not best suited for spaceflight; they were cold-blooded creatures that would go into hibernation if the temperature in their spacecraft fell. So they copied our bodies, but they built them bigger and stronger than we are. And they can exchange parts, or move their brains into entirely new bodies, so they can live forever.”

“Maybe the Cylons who created these machines could just turn them off,” Boxey suggested, in a tone that clearly showed how much these grown-ups needed his help to get the simplest things done.

Apollo shook his head. “There are no more real Cylons. They start replacing body parts of each newly-hatched Cylon with electric and mechanical parts as soon as they leave the hatching chambers. When they’re fully grown, they become the killing machines as we know them. We still call them Cylons, though. “

Boxey looked from him at the daggit-droid, then back at him again. Apparently, an unpleasant thought had just occurred to him.

“Will that happen to us too?” he asked anxiously. “Will our drones and machines take over?”

Apollo shook his head again. “We are very careful not to make our drones quite that intelligent or individual – present company excluded, Muffit,” he added, smiling.

The droid made a tinny, mechanical noise. Apollo smiled and winked at Boxey.

“As a matter of fact we'd better have this drone checked,” he stated with mock-seriousness. “I think he's been listening awfully closely.”

He was rewarded with a delightful laugh, from both the child and his mother.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Apollo smiled at Serina and touched his headset to run a check on the other branches of the survey team. Everything checked out all right, until Ensign Greenbean got on the line and reported a disturbance.

“What is it, Greenbean?” Apollo asked.

“It’s Jolly, sir,” the ensign replied worriedly. “We seem to have lost him.”

“How could you _lose_ anybody of his size?” Apollo beat Serina with the question by a _millimicron_ or so.

“Beats me, sir,” Greenbean admitted, “but he is lost.”

“Send out a search party and report back to me,” Apollo ordered. Greenbean acknowledged and broke the connection.

“The man probably just wandered off,” Serina offered uncertainly, seeing Apollo’s concern, but Apollo shook his head in denial.

“No pilot serving under me would _dare_ to just wander off; especially not Jolly. He’s an extremely reliable man. Now, if it were Starbuck we’re talking about, I’d…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence because the Tylium detector started beeping. The beeping caused the daggit-droid to bark in that high-pitched, electric tone that could cause an instant headache.

“Quiet, Muffit!” Boxey ordered it, and, surprisingly enough, the thing did shut up. “Captain, I see it… Tylium!”

“Good going, Boxey,” Apollo praised him. The boy beamed with pride.

“That’s a pretty hot reading, Skipper,” said a voice that Serina thought to be that of the fat pilot, Jolly. “We might be right on top of that old mine. I’d better check that out.”

“Keep your eyes open, Jolly,” Apollo said. “And by Hades, where have you been? Greenbean’s about to send out search parties to find you.”

“Some of these rocks seem to contain some kind of mineral that blocks both scanners and radio waves,” Jolly answered. “I’ll report back as soon as I’ve found out more.”

“Just be careful,” Apollo warned.

“Will do, Skipper,” and with that, Jolly signed off.

Apollo slowed the landram and checked the indicator himself, just to be safe. But Boxey had been right; it seemed to display a Tylium deposit indeed – and a rather large one at that. He brought the vehicle to a slow stop and was about to collect the necessary equipment when Muffit leapt out of the window.

“Muffy!” Boxey cried out in dismay. “Wait,” he told the two grown-up. “I’ll bring him back.”

Before either of them could have stopped him, the boy had followed the daggit-droid out of the landram’s window.

“Boxey, hold it here!” Apollo shouted after him. “I am going to get him back.”

But the boy was already out of earshot, although his angry calls could still be heard as he tried to lure his pet back. Apollo looked at Serina in concern.

“Should I go after him?” he asked.

Serina smiled at him. “For the moment he’s in plain sight. Let him run free a little. I can’t keep him on too tight a lash all the time. Thank you, by the way.”

“What for?” Apollo looked at her with a gentleness she’d only seen in his eyes before when looking at the child.

“For saving his life,” she said. “If you hadn’t gotten that droid for him…”

“You’re getting things a little out of proportion,” Apollo interrupted gently. “Anyway, maybe I should thank you for including me into his life.”

Serina sighed. “You don’t know anything about me; or about my real son… _or_ about my husband and what happened to him… or how I’ve managed to get out of Caprica with Boxey…”

“When you’re ready, you’ll tell me,” he interrupted her with infinite gentleness that _almost_ made her feel ashamed. “In the meantime, nothing that’s gone on before really counts for much. As far as the human race is concerned, we’re all starting over.”

He’d already been holding her hand and now squeezed gently. She leaned closer; they met halfway in a long, unhurried kiss.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
But even the gentlest moment ends sooner or later, and when they broke the kiss, Apollo squinted out of the window on Serina’s side with a frown.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Boxey,” he replied distractedly. “He was here, just a _micron_ ago.”

“Maybe he’s just run over that hill,” Serina said, not really believing it herself.

“Perhaps,” Apollo said doubtfully, “but we’d better give a look. “C’mon!”

They checked their immediate surroundings, but the only person they found was Jolly.

“Have you seen Boxey?” Serina asked him anxiously.

The fat pilot glared at her blankly. Sagan, but he was really slow witted! Everyone knew her and her ‘son’ by now, having spent a great deal of time with their captain. Well, everyone _else_ , apparently. How could they allow a simpleton like this to fly a Viper?

“A small, six- _yahren_ -old boy?” she added impatiently. “My son?”

The pilot shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I haven’t seen a soul. But the Tylium deposit has been confirmed, Skipper,” he looked at Apollo.

“Report back to the _Galactica_ , and then help me find the boy,” Apollo ordered, and the pilot nodded obediently.

Apollo asked Serina to wait for them at the landram, should the boy return on his own, and she obeyed, although every instinct in her screamed to run out there and look for her son. But she realized that the two men, being trained warriors, could do that a lot more efficiently if she wasn’t slowing them down.

So she walked up and down alongside the landram, until she heard the footsteps of the returning men and spotted their torches. By then, she was so worried about Boxey that she threw all caution into the wind, running up to them and throwing herself into Apollo’s arms unashamedly.

“Any sign of Boxey?” she demanded in anxiety.

“Afraid not,” Apollo hugged her briefly. “But we’re not giving up, I promise. I’ll call a search troop. We _will_ find him.”

Serina shivered. “This planet is eerie… with this darkness and the two moons, it is… what was _that_ , Apollo?”

Both men had just drawn their blasters and pointed them towards the immediate area behind the landram. Serina followed their looks… and screamed. Two nightmarish creatures with bulbous, glowing eyes were emerging from a hole in the ground – a hole that had not been there a _micron_ ago. Their two-triggered weapons were aimed at the humans.


	13. Chapter 11 - The Tylium Mine Mystery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the appearance and culture of the Ovions, I chose to follow the novelization rather than the actual pilot. Again, I added my own twist to the bugs, so this shouldn’t be considered canonical, either.  
>  _Apids_ are hive insects; the Colonial equivalent of bees. The name has been created by Karen.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 11 – THE TYLIUM MINE MYSTERY**

One didn’t have to be an exobiologist to see that the newcomers themselves were not humans. Not even _humanoid_ in appearance. In fact, they looked like rather large insects – about five feet tall each, with large, bulbous eyes set sidewise near the top of their oval heads, long, barrel-like trunks and four arms, all of which ended in three-fingered, clawed hands.

One of the insectoids took aim at the formidable target of Sergeant Jolly – no wonder they found him towering over them a tad intimidating – but another one pushed the barrel of the weapon down. They briefly talked among each other in a high-pitched, chirping language, and then the one who seemed to be some sort of leader among them pulled a hand-held device from under the shapeless green mesh that obviously served as its clothing and pressed a button. With a barely audible whine, an opening appeared in the ground. The insectoids gestured with their weapons to the humans to enter. After a moment of hesitation Apollo obeyed, and the others followed suit.

They ended up in a tunnel, where a pod – made of some half-transparent, pale yellow material neither of them could identify – was waiting. The insectoids gestured them to sit in the pod; two of the bugs got in, too, and then the pod closed its retractable roof above their heads. Serina, although usually not prone to claustrophobia, grabbed Apollo’s arm when the vehicle swung into motion.

Riding the pod in a breakneck speed, they progressed through a long, subterraneous passageway to a cell. There the pod stopped, its roof retracted, and they were gestured to step out of it. The tunnel they now walked along was walled with honeycomb-like panels, glowing with a soft, amber light from within. It was really pretty, in fact; and yet, Serina could not quite suppress the feeling of dread that was threatening to overcome her.

After a while they emerged from the passageway into an immense underground cavern. The giant, many-celled chamber went deeper into the ground than their eyes could have seen, and ascended almost as high. There were countless levels, each one ringed with compartments shaped like honeycombs.

Within those compartments, more insectoids were working; smaller than the ones that had escorted them there, and their skin – or carapace? – was a dull brown rather than greenish like that of the guards… because what else could have those armed guys been? Some of those larger bugs were clearly overlooking the workers who poked at walls, extracted chunks of amber-coloured ore and placed those in small, many-wheeled vehicles, which other workers continually drew in and out of the compartments and sent on through dark, intertwining corridors.

The whole place looked like a gigantic hive of oversized _apids_. Serina found the sight downright nightmarish but Apollo seemed astonished by the seemingly limitless heights and depths of the cave, and at the furiously active work going on in all its cells.

“Incredible!” he murmured. “This is probably the largest underground Tylium mine known to exist anywhere. Father was right about there being Tylium here. There’s enough of it just in sight to fuel all our ships and run them half across the universe.”

“But Skipper,” Jolly said, a lot less enthusiastic; not that Serina would blame him for it. “It’s really bizarre, isn’t it? For something like this to exist here, without us knowing that it had been reactivated – how is it possible? Who uses all this energy… and for what?”

“I don’t care about that!” Serina exclaimed before Apollo could have answered. “I just want to know what happened to Boxey!”

One of the insectoids gave them a shove, guiding them towards a natural bridge that stretched across the wide chamber. It wasn’t a path for someone afraid of heights; Serina did her best _not_ to show how uncomfortable the knowledge of the bottomless depth beneath them made her. She _would_ cross the infernal cavern if it meant to find Boxey on the other side!

The bridge led them to a guarded archway; large and wide even for someone of Lieutenant Jolly’s size to pass through. One of the guards escorting them signalled a complicated pattern, using all four of its arms. That must have been some kind of password, because the bugs guarding the archway stepped aside, granting them access to the room behind.

One of the gate guards pulled out something that must have been a translator device, as it turned the insectoids’ chirping into a soft, singsong voice. A voice that spoke the Colonial Common – a language based on Caprican yet somewhat different from it.

“You are about to be brought into the presence of Lotay, Queen of the Ovions,” it told them. “Show her proper respect.”

“We will,” Apollo replied; he seemed angry but kept his anger under tight control. "Don’t worry,” he murmured to Serina. “If they’ve done anything to the boy, I…”

“Don’t say it!” she protested. “I’m scared enough as it is!”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The luxury of the Ovion Queen’s throne room contrasted strongly with the austerity of the mine. Several layers of finely woven, elaborately patterned cloth decorated the walls and the high ceiling. The Queen herself lounged on a raised dais, resting on cushions and surrounded by a bejewelled retinue of servitors – or perhaps slaves? – that were scurrying back and forth in the room, performing all sorts of odd duties the purpose of which the humans couldn’t figure out.

One of them played a curved, metallic instrument that vaguely looked like a harp but had only three strings and sounded like an out-of-whack generator. The Queen seemed pleased enough by the so-called music, though; perhaps the bugs heard on different frequencies than humans did.

A pair of other servitors was filing down the fine spikes that dotted the surface of the Queen’s limbs; Serina could barely suppress a hysterical giggle. It looked too much like a human woman waxing her legs. Another servant held a long tube, from which the Queen occasionally drew a liquid substance, the residue of which she blew out her mouth as smoke.

“Looks like Starbuck’s _fumarillos_ ,” Jolly commented _sotto voce_. “Do you think he’d make fast friends with the Queen, Skipper?”

“As Starbuck likes to describe himself, he’s beloved by man, woman, child and beast,” Apollo replied just as quietly. “And most of them get him in trouble. Let’s focus on our own trouble right now, shall we?”

Jolly nodded ruefully and gave the Bug Queen a nervous glance. She didn’t seem to have noticed their lack of respect; in truth, she didn’t seem to have noticed their arrival at all – or, in a true queenly fashion, chose to ignore them for an imperial _centon_. But then she looked up from her perch upon a high pile of cushions and waved to the guard with the translator and chirped something.

“You are Captain Apollo?” came the low, sing-song voice from the device.

“I am,” Apollo responded, hiding his shock that the Ovion would know his name. More chirping followed.

“Welcome to Carillon,” the device translated. “I assume you are impressed?”

“Confused would be more like it,” Apollo said with forced civility. “Listen, your Majesty, we’ve lost a little boy. Do you know where he might be?”

The Queen turned her luminous eyes to Serina, as if she’d recognized in her the mother of the child – by what arcane instinct ever. Serina had the uncomfortable feeling of being seized up for dinner or whatnot.

“He is safe,” the Queen announced. “We found him and brought him here.”

Serina nearly collapsed in relief. She had to hold onto Apollo’s arm to be able to keep her balance.

“Would you care to join him?” the Ovion inquired.

“Yes, we would,” Apollo replied. “And I hope for your sake that he hasn’t been harmed in any way!”

The Queen nodded noncommittally with her oversized head and rose from her plush cushions with surprising, almost artistic grace. Serina was astonished by her height; she must have been at least six feet tall and practically towered over her rather short subjects. But again, that was a fairly common insectoid trait.

With a walk that was definitely queen-like, Lotay led the way out of the royal chamber.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Serina noted that their guards fell easily into step behind them as they followed the Queen out. It made her extremely uncomfortable. As they made their way down the narrow corridor, she leaned towards Apollo and asked in a whisper.

“Do you believe she knows the Colonies are gone?”

“I don’t know,” Apollo whispered back. “But she does know my name, and that seems just a teeny bit suspicious to me. Be careful.”

The Queen led them into a small chamber and gestured them to halt. One of the guards sealed off the entranceway. Right after that, they could feel the floor beneath them move. Serina, startled, grabbed Apollo’s arm for support.

“What’s happening?”

“Must be their version of an elevator,” Apollo replied soothingly, “except that it moves sideways as well as up.”

And indeed, after a short while the moving chamber stopped. The Queen gestured the guard to open the doors. Exchanging wary looks, the three humans allowed themselves to be guided through the doorway… and then they stepped right into Elysium, or at least so it seemed.

It was a banquet room of enormous dimensions, filled with people eating, dancing, laughing and gambling. Some kind of flaunty music was playing in the background, and everyone seemed to have the time of their lives.

After a quick visual check, Apollo spotted Starbuck and Boomer in the crowd. They were sitting at one of the tables, sampling the excellent food items that were apparently offered for free. And on Boomer’s knees a small figure was sitting, eating some sort of exotic fruit, with an odd-shaped mechanical pet watching him.

“Boxey!” Serina called out.

Hearing her voice, the boy jumped off Boomer’s knees and ran to her, throwing himself into her arms. Serina hugged him tightly.

“Oh, Boxey, I was so worried about you!”

“You don’t hafta!” Boxey declared cheerfully. “I’ve found Muffy, you see, and he’s been watching me ever since.”

“Is _that_ not reassuring?” Jolly muttered, but his eyes were on the incredible sight before them.

Serina followed his look at the banquet table spread generously along the length of the room. They went all the way, overflowing with what had to be succulent samples representing the best of the Twelve Worlds' cuisines. There was practically _everything_ , from Aquarian seafood to that famous rich, heavy dark dessert that was called Libran Delight… despite being a Caprican delicacy. And wine and ale and all sorts of fruits that had ever grown on any of the Twelve Worlds.

It smelled wonderful and reminded her of how hungry she had been for so long… how hungry they _all_ had been, ever since the Destruction.

“Captain!” Starbuck came towards Apollo, his hands held out in welcome. 

Other eaters turned around to look. Serina could count at least a dozen Colonial warriors among them, fuel-searching mission obviously forgotten in the glorious abundance of food. Apollo’s eyebrows drew together in a manner that reminded her eerily of the Commander.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, sounding every bit as suspicious as Serina felt.

Starbuck looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean? Good fortune’s smiling on us, that’s what it is.”

“It’s like nothing we could’ve dreamed of,” the long, spidery Ensign Greenbean, whose true name probably only Colonel Tigh knew, explained. “They’ve got _everything_ we need, and plenty of it.”

“And they’re happy to share, too,” Boomer added, but there was some doubt in his deep voice, despite all evidence on the contrary.

“It sounds like Elysium,” Serina said, her voice not as sure as her words. Her hugging of Boxey was composed of equal parts of joy and protection.

“Yes, it does,” Apollo said, his keen eyes inspecting the lavishness of the room warily.

The Ovion Queen turned to him, her bulbous eyes gleaming yellow like a pair of lamps.

“We are a communal order from birth,” she declared with the help of the translator. “We all work. We all share. There is no competition, no jealousy, no conflict. Only peace and order.”

“Perpetual happiness,” Apollo observed. His voice was dripping with sarcasm. Serina wondered whether the Queen had perceived the irony of his inflection.

“Happiness is the goal of an immature order,” the Queen replied. “All pursue it. Few have it. None can sustain it. The Ovion is _content_. It is better.”

Serina stole a glance at Apollo and could see the doubt in his eyes; a doubt that was a match for her own feelings.

“It seems to work for you,” she said to the Queen.

“For countless millennia, it has been so,” Lotay answered in a patronizing manner that came to full effect, even through the translator. “Now, join us. Be our guests. Be well fed, well entertained. What you need, merely ask for it. Be content.”

There was something almost hypnotic in the singsong translator voice; Serina had to shake her head to free it from a dizziness that had crept upon her, unnoticed. She heard as if through thick fog Starbuck’s bragging about the attractions of the place, including the chancery several levels above them.

“Chancery,” Apollo repeated with an eyeroll. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Perhaps because you know me all too well?” Starbuck replied breezily. “Well, I’m on my way back, now that I had some sustenance.”

“Lieutenant Starbuck, there are people _starving_ back on our ships, in case you’ve forgotten,” Apollo said icily. Starbuck waved off his reprimand.

“I know, I know, Captain. Ease off. These people are assembling food for us right now. _And_ fuel. Our problems are solved.”

Apollo wasn’t as easily blinded as the average warrior, though.

“It sounds good, Starbuck, but…” he began, but Starbuck interrupted him.

“But _nothing_ , Captain. C’mon, have you ever tasted this orange wine?”

“I’ll pass for the moment,” Apollo’s face reminded stony.

Starbuck shrugged and sauntered off. The Ovion Queen retreated to her own chambers a few _microns_ later, leaving them to their entertainment. Apollo looked at Serina askance.

“What do you think of this?”

“I don’t like it,” she admitted. “Maybe it’s just because I’m hungry, but this place makes me dizzy. And these Ovions give me the creeps, especially their Queen. Their generosity, it all seems too good to be true.”

“There’s certainly more meaning to all this than she’s willing to exhibit,” Apollo agreed. “I wonder what it may be. And I almost sensed a tone of command in her invocation to enjoyment. She sounded like a _Bliss_ dealer. Didn’t you sense the same?”

“I’m not sure _what_ I sensed,” Serina admitted, “but whatever it was, it was cloying. I have a very bad feeling about this. Please, can we go back to the ship? I want to get out here, it’s not safe!”

“Well, if that’s what you really want…” Apollo sounded a little doubtful, but she nodded eagerly. She desperately wanted to return above ground. To be in the comforting, though spare, confines of the _Galactica_.

Some of that despair must have been mirroring on her face, because Apollo gave in.

“All right,” he said. “Father wanted a detailed report about the situation down here. Why don’t we go back and tell him everything we’ve seen; and _then_ put on some nicer clothes and come down again?”

Serina nodded. She’d agree to anything, as long as it got her off the planet. After some hesitation, she also agreed to leave Boxey there, entrusting him to the most reliable Lieutenant Boomer. The boy seemed to enjoy himself more than ever since she’d picked him up from the street on Caprica; and besides, they were about to return for him anyway.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
On the small viewscreen by Commander Adama’s desk, the image of the planet Carillon appeared benign; and now that she’d gained some much-needed distance, Serina found she was able to talk about her experiences rationally. Which she did, in minute detail.

“Our experiences have confirmed the wisdom of your decision to bring the Fleet here, Commander,” she finished.

“Not only can we replenish food and supplies easily, but we’ll obtain enough Tylium to provide the entire Fleet, for quite some time, it seems,” Apollo added.

“But?” Adama asked. “There’s definitely a _but_ behind all these encouraging figures. I can hear it in your voice,” he lifted the electronic notebook with Apollo’s report briefly. “What is it?”

“The Ovions,” Apollo admitted. “They’re a species I’ve never met before. I cannot decide whether we should trust them or not. I mean, who – or _what_ – are they? Where did they come and when? Carillon used to be a human outpost, a mining expedition originating from Piscera. How did the Ovions get here and take over the mines?”

“Those are the questions I’ve been asking myself,” Adama said, “so I’ve asked Colonel Tight to do some research work. He’s nothing if not thorough; so let’s hope he’s found something.”

That was a very accurate description of his executive officer, who appeared a few microns later, looking troubled… which didn’t really surprise anyone. A man with an overgrown sense of responsibility, Tigh _always_ found something to worry about. Especially if his well-founded concerns could be written down in reports.

“Nothing can be as bad as you look, Tigh,” Adama said in fond exasperation. “What’s happened?”

“Well, sir, I've been examining our military intelligence on this Carillon outpost,” Tigh began. 

Adama frowned. “I didn't know we _had_ any – beyond our exploration for fighter fuel,” he said.

“That's the disquieting part,” sir, “Tigh answered. It was Baltar's people who engineered that expedition. They declared the Tylium too minimal for mining, and our military intelligence is based on that report.”

“And now we find one of the largest Tylium mining operations in this entire galactic quadrant, operated by an alien species we’ve never heard of before,” Apollo said slowly. “It seems a bit too… convenient to be a coincidence.”

“Exactly,” his father agreed. “So the mystery is, what's behind such a huge mining operation? There's no local food source to feed the labourers; whatever they eat, it must be brought in from who knows how far.”

“They appear to have plenty of _human_ food to share,” Serina said, only know realizing how unlikely _that_ was. Why would the insectoids keep so much human food? Why the whole wonderland resort?

“Some of our people are getting downright obese,” Apollo supplied grimly.

Adama nodded. “Yes. And there's another mystery. From what the two of you have told me, there seems to be no connection the Ovion workers underground and the resort on the surface, and yet there _has_ to be some connection. They wouldn’t run such an Elysium without a very good reason; it’s not a cheap establishment.“

“Do you suspect a tie-in with the Cylon Empire?” Tigh asked.

“Where Baltar's involved, I suppose I suspect everything,” Adama replied with a weary sigh. “Consider this: why didn’t we ever hear about the Ovions? They seem a highly sophisticated people. How comes they have never ventured into our space? Many other non-human races have.”

“Because they’ve lived within Cylon territory perhaps,” Tigh said slowly. “We know the Cylons tolerate such races that accept their overlordship and are willing to live by their rules in order to survive. Perhaps they’re a slave race; or perhaps they’re actively allied to the Cylons.”

“Which would mean they might have already be here when Baltar’s people surveyed the planet,” Apollo suggested. “Perchance the mine had already been running for _yahrens_ by then.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions before we’d have sound proof for anything,” Adama said soothingly; then he looked at his exec. “You've had no reports of anything odd, or out of the ordinary? “

Tigh shook his head. “No, sir. The people are having the time of their lives… which is another thing that worries me.”

“How so?” Adama asked.

“Uri has everyone in the Fleet breaking in the bulkheads to get down to the surface, and none of them are volunteering for work details, either,” the Colonel explained darkly.

The Commander frowned… then he shrugged. “Well, perhaps he does have a point. Perhaps we could allow some of our people to visit the surface. In small members… an orderly rotation.” Tigh cleared his throat. “What’s wrong, Tigh?”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for cautious plans, sir,” his exec replied. “Uri’s already authorized visitor permits to half our population.”

“ _Half_ the population!” Apollo exclaimed. “Father, you have to countermand those orders immediately!”

“He can’t,” Tigh told him sourly. “As a member of the _Quorum_ , Uri has the right to make certain decisions. Non-military ones, at least. Of course, if your father had stayed on President…”

“Don’t rub it in, Colonel,” the Commander sighed. “Well, we’ll have to do what we still can to stem the tides. How are the work parties coming?”

“Reasonably well,” Tigh admitted. “Food and fuel are being distributed between the most densely populated ships, thinning out towards the smaller ones.”

“All right, Colonel. Carry on.”

“Father, you can’t allow this to go on any longer!” Apollo protested, as soon as Tigh had left. “Uri can’t be allowed so much political licence; and it’s dangerous to send so many people down to the surface.”

“Perhaps,” Adama said. “It can also speed up things for us, though. Consider this: bringing up food from the planet and distributing it among the ships would take time. More time than hungry, desperate people may be willing to wait. If they’re down on Carillon and eat their fill, it will leave us the necessary time to stock up our resources.”

“ _If_ there will be anyone left to bring up those resources,” Apollo replied dryly.

The Commander shrugged. “There’s always the military. They are, at least, under our control; and that way we can make sure that both food and fuel would be distributed evenly.”

“Yeah,” Apollo admitted. “With all the politicians out of the way, we might actually get the chance to do something useful.”

“My thoughts exactly,” his father agreed with a faint smile.

Suddenly, Serina almost felt sorry for _Sire_ Uri. _Almost_. Had the Leonid truly expected an old war daggit like the Commander to roll over and do his bidding? Could he really have been _that_ delusional?

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.

“Come in!” the Commander called out. The sliding door retracted, allowing Athena to enter.

“Request permission to travel planetside, sir,” she said.

Her father raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “Why are you asking _me_? I thought _Sire_ Uri was handing out permits like mushies on a small child’s natal day celebration.”

Athena lifted her chin in a manner so similar to that of her father’s – or her brother’s, as a matter of fact – that Serina had to suppress a smile. Male _or_ female, the Adamans were truly a stock unto themselves.

“I wouldn’t go down there with _his_ blessing on a bet, Father,” Athena declared. “And I won’t go if you say no.”

But despite her proud declaration, there was a deep sadness in her eyes. Adama must have seen it, too, because his answer was positive.

“It’s all right, Athena. You might as well go. You need a short respite more than most; you’ve been working so hard.”

“It’s not respite I’m after tonight,” Athena said, and something in the set of her jaw told Serina that she was very much on the warpath.

“Oh?” Lieutenant Starbuck again, then?” Serina asked, although there couldn’t be much doubt about _that_.

“Maybe,” Athena said with a tight smile that lacked any mirth.

“Yes, he’s down there,” Serina nodded, “and apparently discovered the chancery arcade at once.”

“With Starbuck, a chancery like that must have seemed his rightful gift straight from the Lords of Kobol themselves,” Apollo added with a tolerant smile. “I thought you were mad at him.”

“I am,” the glint in Athena’s eyes left no doubt about _that_.

“Then why…?” Apollo drifted off; then he suddenly nodded. “Oh, I think I can guess. That other woman you caught him with, that _socialator_ … she’s in one of Uri’s visiting parties, isn’t she?”

“Maybe,” Athena repeated coldly. 

Apollo grinned at her. “Well, give her Hades.”

Athena raised a finely-drawn eyebrow; very much in the manner her father had done _microns_ ago. “Is that to be interpreted as an order, _Captain_?”

Apollo grinned wider. “Give them both Hades, _Lieutenant_!”

“Yes, sir!” Apollo smiled at the brisk way she turned on her heels and exited the room.

“ _This_ I have to see,” he said. “Father, what would you think about me returning to the surface and taking a close look at the Elysium down there?”

“It certainly wouldn’t do any harm,” his father agreed, “but it could make Uri suspicious, unless…”

“Unless?” Apollo pressed. Adama glanced at Serina.

“Unless you arrived in proper company,” he said. “Serina, my dear, do you believe you can bear another trip down to Carillon? You look rather… fatigued. Is everything all right with you? You’ve become deathly pale, all of a sudden.”

“I’m sure it’s just a temporary thing,” Serina answered, although she did feel strangely weak and light-headed. “Now that we stopped running for a moment, things are catching up with me, I guess.”

“Still, you shouldn’t dismiss this out of the hand,” Adama said, genuinely concerned. “Have a doctor take a look at you before you board the next shuttle. We’ll be here for a while yet.”

“Commander, it really isn’t necessary,” she protested. “Life Station is crowded as it is, with much more serious cases than my little fatigue. It will pass.”

“Nonetheless, I insist,” Adama said. “Make an appointment as soon as you can.”

“I’ll make the appointment,” Apollo offered. “And I’ll take her to Life Station myself. I don’t think the doctors would refuse a request coming from _you_.”

“No, I don’t think so, either,” the Commander smiled. Rank did have its privileges, and even though the last thing Serina wanted right now was meeting Patroclus again, she found it wiser _not_ to argue with them.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Fortunately for her, Life Station turned out to be extremely busy indeed, with the new cases of food over-indulgence practically flooding them. So Serina reluctantly made an appointment for the time when they’d return from the planet surface, just to placate Apollo. Then she returned to her quarters, changed into something more proper for visiting a chancery and walked back to the shuttle bay, waiting for Apollo to take them back down with the Commander’s own shuttle.

Sometimes it came in handy to be affiliated with the Strike Captain.


	14. Chapter 12 - Trouble in Elysium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The intricacies of Ovion society are mostly my doing, as we’ve learned practically nothing about them in canon. A _dodecada_ is a time span of twelve _yahrens_ , as for some reason the Colonies seemed to think in sixes and twelves. The name has been created by Karen.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 12 – TROUBLE IN ELYSIUM**

Originally, the last thing Serina would have wanted was to return to the surface. Carillon freaked her out, big time; as a newswoman of some experience, she could see through the fake illusions of an artificially constructed Elysium better than most people. The Elysium Carillon offered to the exhausted, half-starved refugees uncomfortably reminded her of the legend of the lotus eaters… even though she couldn’t imagine any sound reason why the Ovions would _want_ all these humans, so clearly alien to them, to remain here.

She had visited Tylium mines before. An update on the fuel situation had always been important for the network, and as the report from the mines had been an unpleasant trip, it had been the newbies who’d got assigned to it. Yet the Ovion mine on Carillon – what little she’d seen of it – was utterly different.

Its network of cells would have been an amazing phenomenon to anyone who’d expected the usual deep-sunk tunnels and shafts from a mining operation. Alone its seemingly infinite depths could make any human being dizzy… but it hadn’t been the depths alone that had made her feel so uneasy. 

It was the Ovions themselves.

One could expect from an insectoid society to have a caste system – which the Ovions clearly _did_ have. But Serina got the feeling that it went considerably deeper than just caste differences. The workers in those cells – living, presumably _feeling_ creatures, after all – had moved like machines: evenly, mechanically, tirelessly. Perhaps that was their way to work… or perhaps they’d been heavily drugged or otherwise influenced.

The Ovion guards – clearly some sort of warrior caste, as they were at least a head taller than the workers – had stood way too near them, as if overseeing every action. Or looking for mistakes, so that they could mete out discipline. They were also armed to their hypothetical teeth.

The whole thing had the smell of slave labour about it, and Serina didn’t like it. If she’d had the choice, she’d choose droids as the lesser evil, despite her misgivings. At least droids were simply _machines_ … unless one made the foolish mistake of making them too smart. The last thing they needed would have been to create another homicidal machine race by accident.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Still, since Apollo needed to go back to the surface in order to keep his eyes open for his father’s behalf – and since he needed an alibi for that – she was willing to accompany him one more time. She was wearing the long-skirted, lavender-blue dress, the one she’d got from Wardrobe, when she entered the chancery on Apollo’s arm. It was a very… spectacular entrance.

She might have hated the colour, but she knew she looked gorgeous in the dress, as even the more fanatical of the gamblers glanced up from their tables to take a look at her. Those people who were not engaged at the various gambling tables could not get their fill of the food offered all along the room. The gambling itself, too, was more rancorous and joyous than any betting or playing activities she’d ever seen before.

“It seems that everyone is winning,” she said in surprise.

“Perhaps Starbuck’s luck is rubbing off on everybody,” Apollo commented with a smile and nodded in the direction of a nearby table, where his best friend was riding a winning streak of epic proportions.

Serina shook her head in bewilderment. “It's a circus... a wonderland,” she said. “Not even the Aquarian chanceries of Veii could come close to this one.”

Which would be saying a lot. The chanceries of Veii had used to be fabled all across the Twelve Worlds.

“At least it’s giving a lot of people the kind of relief break they’ve desperately needed since the Destruction,” Apollo replied. 

Serina nodded. “True. I just wish _you’d_ find time to take a break for yourself. I’ve never seen anybody push himself as much as you do, and I have seen my fair share of dedicated career types. Even this,” she gestured vaguely, “is work for you. It’s not _healthy_.”

“Some of us need to stay alert, to keep the others safe,” Apollo protested, but she wasn’t buying it.

“And if you break under the pressure, who’s to keep us safe then?” she asked accusingly. “You need to learn how to relax, or it will end badly for you. Look at her,” she nodded towards an elderly woman in a rich and rather tasteless dress who was so involved in dice play that her greying blonde hair had come free and was now hanging over her shoulders. “ _She_ knows how to have a good time.”

Apollo looked at her in obvious amusement and simply shook his head.

“What?” Serina demanded. “Don’t look at me so strangely. I _am_ trying to have fun… but it’s not easy to make the transfer. I’m exhausted. So much has happened, and this place gives me the creeps. I think it’s all catching up with me at once.”

“It’s not that,” Apollo explained. “I just happen to know that woman. It’s _Siress_ Blassie, and she’s been known to _always_ find a way to have a good time. But,” he added dutifully, “I could take you to the guest quarters the Ovions have assigned to us if you don’t feel up to the excitement.”

Serina frowned, trying to figure out whether he was finally making his move or simply concerned about her health. But she didn’t want to be separated from him. She didn’t feel safe here... she didn’t know why. Something seemed out of place; she just couldn’t put her finger on it. However, her instincts as a newswoman were on alert.

“Let’s stay here for a while,” she said to Apollo, who simply nodded. “I’m going to have fun… I think. I want to sit here at one of these tables, where I can also keep an eye on Boxey.”

Apollo smiled, although his eyes kept scanning their surroundings warily. 

“Why don't we win a fortune, then?” he asked.

“Why don't we indeed, my beautiful Captain!” she replied coyly, smiling back at him. Then she took a seat at a nearby Trango table and bought some chips from the green-skinned, scaly humanoid who apparently served as the croupier.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
She, too, won a few hundred cubits but grew bored with the game quickly and left the table after half a _centare_.

“When you simply can’t lose, it isn’t so much fun anymore,” she explained with a shrug. “Besides, the air is getting too thick in here; it’s hard to breathe.”

“Let’s go out into the garden, then,” Apollo suggested, and she rose gladly to follow him.

The gardens of the resort seemed to extend to every direction behind the building, the various parts of them separated by fantastically cut brushes. The centrepiece of them, though, seemed to be a fountain, from which purple wine flew in the form of tiny waterfalls and fell back into a broad marble basin to be redirected back into the circulation. People scoped up portions of the liquid into golden goblets with broad handles, and then held the goblets over the tiny fires that encircled the basin. The result, based on the reactions of the crowd, seemed to be quite hefty.

“Do you want to try it?” Apollo asked.

Serina hesitated for a moment. The reaction of the people unsettled her for some reason she couldn’t quite name.

“Perhaps just a little taste,” she said. “This must be that _grog_ Lieutenant Starbuck was so enthusiastic about.”

They tried a sample and had to admit that the concoction was tantalising. It seemed to mix hot and cold in delicious bursts of taste. It also must have had some aphrodisiac effect, seeing how people who’d taken generous samples form it were flirting heavily… and not in words only. Serina pulled a face.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” she said. “This isn’t any better than within the building.”

Apollo agreed, and they walked down one of the side paths leading to a small, enclosed garden. There they sat down on a low bench, holding hands, and Serina rested her head on Apollo’s shoulder. The music was muted out there; muted enough so that the water-play of the fountain in the middle of the garden – this time a regular one – could be heard. It was incredibly peaceful. Dangerously so.

“Feeling better?” Apollo asked quietly after a while.

Serina smiled. “I’m fine, Apollo, really,” she raised her head for a moment, looking directly into his eyes; they were surprisingly warm.

“I care about you,” he confessed in a low voice. “For the first time in my life, I know what all those poets have been talking about.”

Serina was a little taken aback by his confession. After the disaster that had been her marriage with Boreas, she’d never accepted any emotional relationship with a man. Sex was fine, especially if such favours secured her a comfortable existence, but emotions… emotions were nothing but trouble. She had learned not to trust them – either her own ones or those of her suitors.

And yet Apollo seemed so utterly honest, so serious – this might be her last chance to be truly loved. Even though she’d lost the ability to _fall_ in love a long time ago, that didn’t mean she was forbidden to _accept_ love, did it?

“Write me a poem,” she teased, touching her brow to Apollo’s.

He smiled at her in that self-replecating manner of his. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Oh, I think I do,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder again. ”And it would mean to me more than you know,” she added, before rising her head and kissing him chastely on the cheek. “I’ll do better in private, I promise.”

“Do you want me to _find_ someplace private?” he asked, only half-joking.

“No,” she said. “Not yet. Not here. There will be time enough for _that_ later, or so I hope. Right now, we’ve got an assignment here; and besides, I’d hate to miss Athena’s big entrée when she makes Lieutenant Starbuck to a _leporid_.”

“No-one makes a _leporid_ out of Starbuck easily,” Apollo replied, “but this is one scene I want to see, too. Do you think we could go back now?”

“Sure,” she said. “Let’s hope we aren’t too late already.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
They found Starbuck where they had left him: in a far corner of the chancery hall, near an entertainment lounge, riding a winning streak that thwarted everything they’d seen before. A tall pile of golden _cubits_ stood in front of him as he tossed another winning hand back onto the table.

“Let ‘em ride again,” he said, grinning, and pushed the _cubits_ towards the dealer: a strangely leather-faced old man.

At the same time, the blonde Gemoni woman, the _socialator_ Serina had seen at Life Station, appeared behind him, wearing a shoulder-free white dress with wrist frippery and rubbed herself against him in a manner that left absolutely no doubt about her intentions.

“Hello, Starbuck,” she purred.

It was a cheap approach, really cheap. Serina felt strangely disappointed; a high-class _socialator_ should have displayed more subtlety, she found. Of course, sometimes cheap worked better than any elaborate scheme, especially when the target was already interested and more than willing. Starbuck seemed content enough with her advances in any case, and turned to her, grinning.

“This must be my lucky night,” he announced.

“Just might be,” she replied in a low, sensuous voice and wrapped her arm around his neck, pressing up against his front.

“Sagan, I hope she won’t _frack_ him right here, in front of everyone,” Serina commented dryly.

“He certainly seems eager enough,” Apollo smiled. “But that’s Starbuck for you. I’ve warned Athena that he cannot be tamed; she wouldn’t listen. Nearly broke my nose, actually, for, and I quote, _nosing around her love life_.”

And indeed, Starbuck didn’t seem the least adverse to leave his unnatural winning streak behind for more… carnal pleasures. Serina was grateful that she’d let Boxey behind, in the company of the ever-reliable Lieutenant Boomer. She wouldn’t want the boy to be subjected to such tasteless display. _Apollo really should reconsider the company he keeps_ , she thought. There were things that definitely belonged to the private areas, not shown off publicly.

“Well, money isn’t everything,” Starbuck declared in the meantime, kissing the blonde _socialator_ , completely undisturbed by the audience. “Have you checked the accommodations yet?”

She shook her head coyly. “Should I have?”

Starbuck threw her a positively lecherous grin. “Most of my unit is staying down on Carillon tonight. I thought it would be a waste if…”

She laid a finger across his lips and smiled in a manner that would have tempted a two-hundred- _yahren_ -old Kobolian priest to mortal sin.

“I’ll see what I can arrange,” she promised and positively _slinked_ away. 

Starbuck stared after her with glassed-over _ovine_ eyes. “Oh, yeah,” he breathed.

Serina shook her head in exasperation. “What is it with your warriors and the mating heat anyway? What does he see in that little tramp?”

“She’s _available_ ,” Apollo replied cynically, “and she makes no demands, apparently. Starbuck can’t deal very well with demands… or with permanent relationships. He’s lost everything at about the age of six, _including_ his memories, and if there’s one thing growing up in orphanages had taught him, it’s that nothing lasts. People would leave him sooner or later. Nobody wants to keep him forever.”

“Except you,” Serina commented softly.

Apollo nodded, his green eyes sad and serious. “Except me, yeah. I’d never had a friend quite like him; not even Boomer comes close. And as for him: I am the only family he has, even if it’s only an honorary one.”

“Yet you still didn’t want him to court your sister,” Serina reminded him with a certain degree of well-hidden satisfaction.

Apollo shrugged. “He’s my best friend. I owe him my life several times and vice versa. That doesn’t mean I’d agree with his lifestyle; I accept it as something that is an inherent part of him but I don’t want Athena to share it.”

“I’m afraid she might not care whether you approve or not,” Serina answered, nodding towards the main entrance.

Apollo, who’d been watching Starbuck lit a _fumarello_ and turn back to the game, glanced into the same direction… and was instantly thunderstruck. The grand entrée of Athena would have put any great media star to shame. She was wearing a dress that made Serina pale with envy at once: a sleeveless gown of such a pale rosé it almost seemed white, with a shawl of the same feather-light silk twisted loosely around her neck to balance out the depth of the cleavage. She wore her hair down, as always; it seemed to float around her bare shoulders like a mahogany cloud. The glittering of her eyes made it adamantly clear that she was on the warpath.

She walked up behind Starbuck and grabbed him at the cuff as one would grab the neck of a baby daggit. “Is this seat taken?”

Starbuck, clearly believing that it was his blonde companion returning, turned to her with a grin… and nearly choked on the smoke of his fumarello in the next moment. “Oh… erm…” he stuttered, “well… it’s…”

She interrupted him with surprising gentleness. “Starbuck…”

Her tone seemed to surprise him indeed. “Yeah?”

“I came because I think I owe you an apology,” she told him straightforward.

His surprise was even more genuine now. “You do?”

Serina was impressed. She hadn’t expected Athena to launch such a frontal attack; but she had to admit that with a man who appeared as clueless as Starbuck, it might just work.

Athena nodded. “I believe so, yes. When you asked me to Seal with you, right after the Destruction, I turned you down. Told you I didn’t want to care about anybody… _especially_ you…”

“I vaguely recall you saying _that_ ,” Starbuck answered slowly, his eyes wary and suspicious.

Athena rolled her eyes and touched the tip of his nose with uncharacteristic gentleness.

“Oh, come on! This Elysium is the perfect opportunity for us to be… open,” she circled him playfully and pressed herself against his back in a shockingly similar manner as the _socialator_ had done just _microns_ ago, “and honest to one another.”

“Yeah,” Starbuck must have had the same flashback because he seemed _extremely_ uncomfortable.

Athena circled him again and lifted his chin with one finger. “I hurt you. Admit it.”

“Well…” the topic seemed to make Starbuck nervous like Hades.

Athena made big _cervus_ -eyes at him. “Didn’t you say that I was the only woman you’d ever really cared about?”

Serina stifled a laugher. “She certainly takes no prisoners tonight, does she?” she whispered.

“That’s my baby sister for you,” Apollo whispered back with almost proprietary pride. 

Serina withstand the urge to roll her eyes. These Adamans! Did they really think that willpower was the only thing they needed to get what they wanted?

Starbuck in the meantime, was somewhat… redundant to give a straight answer. Athena’s look hardened as she said, “Well, did you say that or not?”

 _Ouch! Bad tactic, applying pressure in such an awkward situation_ , Serina thought, wincing. Starbuck glanced to the side, expecting Cassiopeia to return any _micron_ now.

“Yeah, I… erm… I may have said that…” he began.

Athena’s eyes narrowed, turning to ice rapidly. “You _may_ have said that?” she repeated coldly and turned around to storm off.

“No!” Starbuck back-pedalled hurriedly. “No, Athena, wait! What…what I meant to say is that… I’ve had to shut all those feelings out of my mind to… to avoid any more pain than I’ve already suffered…” he took her hand and kissed it gallantly. She smiled and caressed his face but Serina could clearly see the ice in her eyes still, even if Starbuck did not.

“Poor Starbuck,” Athena all but purred. “So lonely. So much in need of a little comfort. I think, under those circumstances I can forget your little peccadillo with the _socialator_. I have to accept part of the blame for you looking for comfort elsewhere, I guess.”

Starbuck’s eyes widened in surprise as realization hit him like a Cylon laser torpedo. “It was _you_! You turned on the _fracking steam_! I should…”

“Should _what_?” Athena asked sweetly. “Didn’t you deserve it?”

“No, of _course_ I didn’t deserve it!” Starbuck exclaimed. “It was you who…”

“I only asked you for a little time,” Athena interrupted. “Starbuck, I’d just lost my mother, my baby brother, my home… a home that, by the way, you’d shared with me, with us, for _yahrens_ , whenever you came back with Apollo for a _furlong_. I thought you’d understand that I needed to come to terms with that loss… instead of hopping into a launching tube with any _socialator_ that happens to come your way.”

“That’s pretty bigoted, and you know that!” Starbuck protested. “A _socialator_ is not a common…”

“I don’t care if she’s an uncommon anything,” Athena interrupted with an expression on her face that was positively glacial. “My brother, although you’re his best friend, warned me about you. I told him he was mistaken; that you _were_ capable of fidelity if you’d choose to. But it seems that he was right and I was wrong, doesn’t it?”

To his credit, Starbuck at least _tried_ to look contrite. “Athena, I’m so sorry!” he hugged her; but at the same time, over her shoulder, he also spotted Cassiopeia approaching. “Oh, no…”

“What a miserable timing,” Apollo commented softly. “This is like angling towards a tilted deck for a crash landing. Perhaps if Starbuck crawls under the table while the girls fight it out between them, he may come out of this mess with his skin mostly intact.”

Cassiopeia, in the meantime, reached Starbuck and Athena and said with a falsely charming smile, “Excuse me, I believe you’re occupying my seat.”

Athena turned towards her with a studied deliberation. “ _Your_ seat?” she asked elegantly, with so much patrician superiority that only the daughter of an old Kobolian family could master.

Cassiopeia raised an eyebrow that was probably meant to be superior, too, but compared with the natural-born and bred thing, it only seemed cheap. She stood no chance against Athena when it came to true social graces. Some things one just couldn’t learn from books… or from frequent dealings with the aristocracy. One either had it in one’s blood – or one didn’t. Cassiopeia clearly belonged to the latter category. But at least she tried.

“Pretence of maturity doesn’t become you, little girl,” she said haughtily; then she turned back to Starbuck nonchalantly. “I’ve got good news.”

“Huh?” Starbuck made a face like an _ovine_ , clearly not having a clue how to react. Serina didn’t blame him. This was a situation where he couldn’t win, no matter what.

Cassiopeia held up a hand. From one finger, a golden key dangled on a glistening chain. A very elaborately wrought key. “I’ve got us the key to the Royal Suite,” she said triumphantly.

“As such a turn is politely know in Fleet parlance, this is the moment where the _felger_ hits the fan,” Apollo commented softly. Serina grinned, having heard the much less polite version of it already.

“I wonder how the Lieutenant winds himself out of this _felger_ ,” she said.

“I’m not sure he can, not this time,” Apollo replied, shaking is head in helpless laughter. “Only you, Starbuck. Only you can get yourself _this_ deep in _felger_ , without actually trying.”

At the same _micron_ Athena snatched the key from Cassiopeia’s fingers. “Why, thank you, _we_ do appreciate it,” and she walked away, looking back over her shoulder. “You coming, Starbuck?”

Starbuck looked from one woman to another in thinly-veiled panic. “Erm, see… listen, I’ve got this really hot streak going on here…”

Athena turned back, with a falsely excited smile, and crossed her arm. “Oh. I see.”

“Yes, I do, too,” Cassiopeia said coldly, then she glared at Starbuck. “Honey, your streak wasn’t that godforsaken pile of _cubits_ on that table. It used to be _here_ , with me… and it’s just gone cold.”

“That’s right, you tell him!” Athena scowled in complete agreement.

“Hey!” Starbuck protested intelligently.

“Forget it, _Lieutenant_ ,” Cassiopeia said. “A _socialator_ of a certain class knows when to bow out. Well, have a good time, you two. And next time, it’s office sales for you, too, Lieutenant.”

She whirled around and angrily pushed her way through the crowd. Athena glared daggers at Starbuck. “Oh, Starbuck, the Royal Suite…”

“Yeah?” he asked hopefully.

“Forget it!” Athena threw the key down on the card table, pushed the chair over and followed in Cassiopeia’s wake. Starbuck let out a long-held breath and started collecting his _cubits_ , while the dealer pushed his newest winnings towards him.

“That went well,” Apollo commented cynically.

Serina shrugged. “What did you expect? No woman likes being double-teamed. Your sister is a fighter; and I’m sure the _socialator_ hasn’t quit for good, either. They are both letting him squirm on his leash before they pounce again… and _then_ it’s gonna be _really_ ugly.”

“That’s not a very comforting perspective,” Apollo sighed. But before he could have said anything else, a seriously concerned Boomer showed up and made his way across the crowd to them.

“We need to talk,” he said grimly.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
There was an urgency in the Leonid’s voice they could not ignore. Even Starbuck, sorely disappointed by the outcome of what he thought would be his “lucky night”, stuffed his winnings into his pockets and followed them away from the gambling tables and into the chancery hall’s entertainment lounge.

They got a small table at the side wall, near the stage, where a trio of small, springy-haired, humanoid singers with oversized heads was currently performing. They were singing a song that bore no likeness to any kind of music Serina had ever heard – and considering that she had started her media career as the host of talent shows before she could have switched to a more… _serious_ department, was saying a lot. They sang in a high-pitched and raucous fashion, but not without a certain sweetness in a deeper timbre undercutting the melody.

Starbuck was clearly quite charmed by their performance and could not take his eyes off them. “What do you know about the entertainment?” he asked Boomer.

The Leonid glanced towards the stage and said in a voice that completely lacked any interest. “Tucanas.”

Which, apparently, didn’t say Starbuck a thing. “Is that the name of the group or their species?”

“They came from the planet Tucana,” Apollo intervened, in a manner of a wary Academy lecturer who’d long given up hope that his students were actually _listen_ to him for a change. “Which, as you’d know for yourself, had you ever paid attention to Political Sciences during your _yahrens_ at the Academy, has been wiped out by the Cylons some three _dodecadas_ ago. Only a handful of them have survived; mostly those who’d already worked on other planets as entertainers. Am I right?” he looked at Serina for confirmation.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Apollo, but I never heard of them before. Interesting sound, though – and sort of attractive, in an odd way.”

“Very odd,” Boomer said darkly.

Starbuck frowned. “What do you mean by _that_?”

The Leonid’s answer was cryptic. “Look closely.”

Starbuck gave the singers a good, hard look – and so did Serina, understanding suddenly what Boomer meant. Each of the Tucan women – if they _were_ , in fact, women – had two mouths, and all of the mouths were engaged in the song. No wonder they were able to create such a bizarre sound.

“They’re incredible,” Serina commented.

Boomer nodded. “Yeah, that they are. And the noise level in here makes it hard for any of those _fracking_ Ovions to overhear us... or to read lips.”

“Lips?” Starbuck asked, a little confused. “Oh, you mean _our_ lips! Look, are you sure you aren’t imagining things? Why would anybody want to read our lips?”

“Why indeed?” Apollo said softly. “Why establishing this Elysium here, on such a godforsaken outpost? Why feeding us, entertaining us, keeping us down on the surface?”

“Speaking of which,” Serina asked, glancing around nervously and spotting quite a few Orion slaves in the crowd, slurring after their nondescript duties, “it would not harm to pretend that we _are_ being entertained. At least we should buy a drink, or we might raise suspicions.”

“That can be arranged,” Starbuck dumped a handful of _cubits_ onto the table, selected one and inserted it in a small pedestal at the centre. In the next _micron_ , a cup of the infamous grog materialized on the pedestal. He picked it up and handed it to Serina with a mocking half-bow. “Your drink, my lady!”

“Where did you get all those _cubits_?” Boomer asked.

Starbuck looked at him as one would look at a particularly slow-minded child. “Gambling,” he explained patiently. “In case you haven’t realized yet, you _can’t_ lose here. The cards are simply falling my way.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Boomer said. “ _Everybody_ ’s winning. Have you ever been to a place where you can’t lose a single _cubit_?”

“No,” Starbuck admitted lightly, “but then I’ve never been _here_ before, either.”

“Starbuck, _nobody_ else I know of has ever been here either,” Apollo intervened. “Don’t you find that just a little bit strange? I know, this place is a little out of the way, but…”

“A _little_ out of the way?” Starbuck repeated, outraged. “We almost died to get here!”

“Exactly,” Apollo said. “We almost starved, because of the fuel problem, because of the contaminated food, and because we spent a lot of time crawling at slow speed for the other ships to keep up with us. And yet half the people here are from our home planets – Caprica, Tauron, Sagittara… I even met Librans and Aquarians here! And none of them knows about the Cylon attack, none of them has any idea that the colonies are gone.”

“When I tried to tell them what had happened, they thought I was joking,” Boomer added darkly.

Starbuck shrugged. “Understandable. It isn’t a very credible story when you’re sitting in a joint like this.”

“Yeah, but how did they get here in the first place?” Apollo asked. “ _Someone_ must have transported them here, before the Cylon invasion. How did they learn about this place? No communication has been going in or out ever since we arrived, and I’m fairly certain that it has been the case for a _very_ long time.”

“And another thing,” Boomer added. “Not only have we never heard of this so-called resort before; no-one has ever encountered Ovions, right?”

“They aren’t even mentioned in the _Galactopedia_ ,” Apollo told him, “which is near impossible. “ _Every_ known species, alive or extinct, is mentioned in the _Galactopedia_.”

“I’ve asked around among our biggest gossips,” Boomer continued. “Nobody, but not a single one of them got a word of publicity about this most efficient gambling den of the galactic quadrant. How is it that all these people come here but never get home again and told everybody about it?”

“Would you tell everybody you found a gold mine?” asked Starbuck with a dismissive shrug. “I mean, who knows hop lonw they’re gonna keep it up? There must be some kind of introductory offer, but I can think why they keep this from the military… hey, those girls are amazing!”

“Forget the girls,” Boomer scowled. “Talk to me. Did you pick up any gossip around here?”

Starbuck was barely listening to him. He was still staring at the singers, despite Boomer’s worries. “Like what?” he asked.

“Like why everyone eats so much in this place perhaps?” Boomer suggested. “I heard some have already ended up at Life Station with signs of serious over-indulgence.”

“Why not?” Starbuck dismissed his concerns. “The food is practically free, and it is _sensational_ , like… hey, would you listen to _that_? They’re unbelievable!”

During their argument, one of the singers had moved downstage for what sounded like a riff solo, while, while the others provided a complex harmony. Serina was a bit surprised that only six mouths could perform such intricate beauty… then she realized that the soloist was only using her upper mouth at the moment to carry the melody, the sweetness of which made her shiver and the little hairs on her bare arms rise.

“What is unbelievable is how blind you can be!” Boomer was clearly frustrated with his best friend. “We may be lucky if we last till tomorrow morning!”

Apollo stiffened in his seat. “What are you talking about, Boomer?”

Boomer lowered his voice until it could barely be heard in the overall noise. “People are disappearing.”

“Disappearing?” Apollo repeated, stunned. “Who? When?”

“I’m not sure,” Boomer admitted. “But I’ve picked up some talk, some strange stuff about guests who just drop out of sight,” he turned to Starbuck. “Remember that blonde Taurus we met just as we found this place? She never showed up again.”

Starbuck rolled his eyes. “Boomer, she went on a moonlight tour! And so did the others, I’m sure about that. This is a big place, Boom-boom, and people usually have some kind of tour to go on before leaving for home.”

“Home?” Boomer said incredulously. “What home? I just told you, nobody every heard of anybody going home! And what home are they gonna go to, now that the Colonies are all destroyed?”

“You ask too many questions,” Starbuck waved off his concerns again.

“And you’re not acting yourself,” Boomer returned angrily. “Something’s gotten to you, Starbuck – or are you on _Bliss_ or what? I’m telling you, something is not right around here.”

“Well, _they_ are,” Starbuck interrupted him. “Listen to them!”

The trio was building up to their big finish. The two Tucanas singing harmony hit a sustained chord, while the soloist’s voice rose… and rose… and rose… Then, just at the final beat, her lower mouth came open and emitted a low, resounding note that not only put an unbelievable capper on the piece of music but also smashed the glass on their table to pieces.

The audience broke into tumultuous applause. Flabbergasted, Starbuck rose from his seat, shouting, “I gotta talk to ‘em!”

Boomer looked like someone who wanted to hit the tabletop with his head. “I don’t believe this! Has he gone completely mad now?”

He rose to run after Starbuck, who was rushing towards the stage, trying to catch the attention of the Tucana singers, but Apollo caught his arm.

“Let him go; he’s not thinking straight.”

“That’s _fracking_ right, he’s not!” Boomer snapped. “Half the galaxy is trying to kill us, people are disappearing from here, and all he cares about is to manage a trio of alien singers?”

“I assume there has to be something in the drinks here,” Apollo said grimly. “I’ll go after him. You go back to the _Galactica_ and make a report to my father; I’d rather not talk about these things through the comm system. We never know who might be listening.”

“We must find Boxey first,” Serina clutched the edge of the tabletop nervously. “Where is he?”

“He’s with Jolly, in the banquet room,” Boomer told her. “Don’t worry; nothing but the Captain’s direct order would remove Jolly from those tables. But you should hurry up, Apollo, before Starbuck decides to go on an interstellar cruise with those singers.”

“He won’t have a chance,” Serina glanced at the stage and grinned involuntarily. “ _Sire_ Darius apparently beat him at trying to engage the girls. Somehow I have the feeling that we’ll meet this group again – on board of one of the Aquarian ships.”

“In that case,” Apollo said in relief, “let’s pick Starbuck up and find Boxey, before we decide what we’ll do next.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
On their way to find Boxey, they passed the central garden with the grog fountain again. There they caught a glimpse of _Sire_ Uri, clad in his most festive official robe. He was fixing himself one of those addictive drinks and talking with one of the other _Quorum_ members – namely _Sire_ Lobe, the representative of Piscera.

“I had a long talk with their queen… what’s her name again, Lory, Lotty… something like that,” Uri was saying, just as Apollo and Serina reached the garden. “She’s very wise and generous – even attractive, if you can adjust your thinking to one of these insect creatures being attractive at all. She said, she was happy that we seemed to like it here so much.”

Lobe, a fairly simple man who went in constant awe of Uri, more based on what the Leonid once had been than what he was now, nodded in agreement.

“What is there _not_ to like?” he said. “Have you seen the guest quarters? They’re as opulent as the palace of the lost Kings of Aquaria, and endless. _Endless_. If we just could take this planet with us, we wouldn’t need to seek out any mythical place to settle on.”

“Why would we need to take it with us?” Uri asked softly. “That’s exactly what I talked to the queen about. Elysium, the fulfilment of our wildest dreams, could not be better. There’s the food, all the necessities to feed our people, and the Ovions can produce it in mass quantities. With the Ovions, we also have the support of a culture quite content to be subservient to our needs. When I asked the queen if we could stay here, she said they would be happy to welcome us, expect for one thing.”

“And that would be?” Lobe fixed himself another grog, his eyes getting a little glassy from the stimulants the drink contained.

Uri shrugged. “She said they are a peaceable race, and they fear our weaponry. Justifiably so, it appears to me.”

“It does?” _Sire_ Lobe was clearly too far gone to lead any sensible conversation but went on nonetheless.

Uri nodded. “What would _you_ think, if a superior race came down out of the skies and threatened us with superior weaponry? I mean, you can see their point. And anyway, here we are far away from the Cylons so as not to post a threat to them. At least we ought not to pose a threat, and would not, if we calmed the Ovions’ fears by giving up our weaponry, our awesome war machines.”

Apollo and Serina exchanged shocked looks. It was not that Uri had spoken so preposterously that surprised them; it was the fact that Lobe seemed to be in complete agreement, and a few people all around them were nodding their assent to the idea.”

“Do you realize what you’re saying, _Sire_ Uri?” Apollo said, stepping forward into the centre of the councillor’s group. Serina stayed at the edge of the garden, trying to focus her eyes on the scene before her and to remember every word that was being spoken.

“Ahh...” Uri said with a benevolent smile. “Our young warrior or should I say saviour. The son of our god-like commander, who can count back his ancestors to the Lords of Kobol themselves, can’t he? Captain, I was just pointing out that this planet offers us a marvellous opportunity.”

“I can imagine,” Apollo replied dryly. “The opportunity to be murdered for good and all by the Cylons.”

“If they even bothered with us, which they would not,” Uri said confidently.

Apollo rolled his eyes in exasperation. “ _Sire_ Uri, they destroyed our homeworlds!”

The Councillor raised a hand in a lecturing manner. “They attacked us, I would remind you, because we were a threat to their order. Here, isolated from them, we pose no threat, or would not, if we disposed of ships and weapons. What do you think of my proposal?” 

“I’d hope it's the grog,” Apollo replied. Uri raised his goblet in a toast.

“Well,” he said. “Tonight, it might very well be the grog, but there's always tomorrow.”

Apollo whirled around and walked out of the circle. Taking Serina’s arm, he led her along a garden path back towards the chancery.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s find Boxey and return to the _Galactica_. Father must learn about this immediately.”

“You truly believe that anyone would take that proposal seriously?” Serina asked doubtfully.

“Maybe not,” Apollo allowed. “Not in the sombre light of the day, at least. But you could see, too, all those people nodding right along with what he said.”

Serina had to admit that _that_ was, unfortunately, very true. So they headed to the chancery again, to find Boxey. It was beyond the boy’s bedtime anyway.


	15. Chapter 13 - More Than Bargained For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Certain details of this chapter might seem unfamiliar, but they were supposed to be canon originally. They are based on deleted scenes of the pilot, although they’re not entirely identical with those.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 13 – MORE THAN BARGAINED FOR**

Apollo practically dragged her away from the grog fountain, leading her along a garden patch back towards the casino. Serina risked a quick glance over her shoulder; _Sire_ Uri was staring after them, with a calculating look in his beady eyes.

That didn’t bode well with her; as her former patron, Uri knew not only about Patroclus but also about some of her other... exploits. Should any of those find their way into Apollo’s ear, it could ruin her plans thoroughly. And she knew Uri wouldn’t be above blackmailing her into working for him against Adama if he thought she could prove useful

She had to make her move before _that_ could happen.

People who knew her well – and those had been exceedingly rare to begin with and were becoming fewer with each passing _yahren_ – called her a calculating woman, and they were right. She had always known what she wanted; she knew the means at her disposal to reach her goals; and she always weighed those two things against each other rationally, deciding with cold-headed detachment whether the results were worth the price.

What she wanted _now_ was to Seal with the heir of the Adamans, to secure herself a social status higher than she could have ever dreamed of. A status that would have been beyond her reach without the Destruction. A status that _counted_ , even under the given circumstances – more so than ever before, actually.

It no longer meant simply wealth, although she still did value wealth and what it could buy her very much. Now it meant safety – for her _and_ for Boxey – and power that could no longer be achieved elsewhere.

In comparison, the piece was a bargain. All she had to do was to let Apollo _frack_ her, and that was no great hardship. The young captain was handsome, cultured, disarmingly idealistic – and quite obviously smitten with her. If she played her cards well, he’d be putty in her hands.

The only risk factor was his wing-mate, that blond man-slut of questionable origins. Starbuck was a gambler himself, and as such would not be easily blinded. He was also fanatically devoted to Apollo, if one could believe the rumour mill, and would be deadly jealous as soon as he’d spotted her making her move. Despite his infamous reputation with women, Serina was sure that the blond would offer his _astrum_ for the taking in a _micron_ , would Apollo show the tiniest sign of interest.

Which he clearly didn’t. Still, Serina wouldn’t make the mistake of dismissing Starbuck’s influence over her chosen prey so easily. Male bonding, even on a platonic level, could be a powerful thing. She’d need all her female viles to balance out that influence properly. The fact that Commander Adama approved of the relationship between them had been an unexpected plus, but not enough. Not by far.

Right now, while things were still new between them and Apollo’s sexual interest focused on all the delights her body could offer, that influence was not yet threatening. But she had to act on that interest if she did not want to lose Apollo to Starbuck. She had the skills to do that, of course. Patroclus had taught her well. But Apollo was a stubborn man; getting him to the Sealing ceremony while making him believe it was _his_ idea in the first place and made him feel it was his responsibility to take care of her and of Boxey in the future would be a delicate maneuver.

 _Then_ she could start working on separating him from Starbuck. She did not want to fight the blond pilot’s hold on Apollo all her life. But that was another task for another time. Right now, she had to deal with the first problem.

Apollo’s arm tightened around her shoulder possessively; she glanced up to him questioningly and saw that his green eyes were unusually bright. Clearly, the _grog_ was starting to work on him. Serina could feel the effects herself; she was getting a bit woozy. But, unlike Apollo, she’d had some experience with semi-legal substances in her misspent youth, and so she knew how to deal with their effects – whether those effects hit her _or_ her date.

Perhaps she could even utilize Apollo’s intoxicated state to get closer to her goal. They’d already spent _one_ night together, and he seemed to be getting really hot and bothered – why not give him what he needed, so that he’d get used to come to her for his fix?

“Don’t let Uri ruin this wonderful glow,” she murmured, snuggling up to him innocently. “I’m sure no one would take that ridiculous proposal seriously. Not even the _ovines_ who’re nodding along right now.”

Apollo looked down at her along his nose, which made him ridiculously cross-eyed, but he no longer seemed to care for such insignificant things as dignity. There must have been some serious aphrodisiac in that _grog_ , Serina decided. People who were inexperienced with party drugs wouldn’t stand a chance. But that was all right with her; it would get him where she wanted him to be.

“In that case, would you like to hear _my_ proposal?” he asked with a somewhat lecherous grin. “It’s a bit more… personal,” and he let his arm slide from her shoulder and rest around her waist.

Serina giggled – not entirely voluntarily, the _grog_ was stronger than even she was used to, but given the direction their conversation was heading to, it didn’t really matter.

“Captain, I’ve been considering it long before you ever got around to asking it,” she told him, resting her head on his shoulder. “But I’m not sure about it. Not while my head is spinning anyway. Would you mind if we discussed this again, after we visit the guest quarters?”

“Which brings me back to my proposal,” he spun her around, so that they’d stand face to face and pulled her so close that they were pressed together from shoulder to knee. She could feel him hardening against her. “I wanted to take you here.”

And he sneaked a hand between their bodies to fondle her breast.

She removed his hand and stepped away from him. If she wanted to get him hooked for good, she could not afford to seem easy to get. He had to learn to make some efforts to get what he wanted, every time. Besides, she knew he would never come in so aggressively without the _grog_ , and she didn’t want him to regret anything afterwards; or to be ashamed. _That_ would work against her long-term goal.

“This time I want to go there to make sure Boxey is all right,” she said. “After that… let’s hear no proposals you can’t live up to when the _grog_ wears off.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
A sign in the casino elevator informed them that all guest quarters were on the first three levels going down. Serina touched the plate for Level #2 where, according to Sergeant Jolly, Boxey had been deposited earlier in the evening.

“I wonder what’s on those other levels, further down,” she murmured, pointing at the array of sensor controls on the bottom half of the panel.

Apollo grinned at her rakishly. “Want to take a look?” he asked.

She grinned back at him. “You need to ask? I’m a newswoman, remember? Well, at least I used to be.”

“All right,” he reached out, not-quite-accidentally brushing her breast in the process, making her nipples harden. “Which level do you want to see first?”

She slapped his hand out of the way. “Let’s start at the bottom and work our way up,” she suggested.

That earned her a sultry grin again. “An excellent idea,” he agreed, laying a hand on _her_ bottom and squeezing gently. 

She laughed, letting him have his fun for the moment, and touched the plate for the bottom level. Immediately, the soft artificial voice of the omnipresent AI of the casino flooded at them from the ceiling.

“You have indicated an incorrect stop. Guest accommodations are limited to the first three levels. All other levels are for kitchen, mining and support personnel only. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“Off limits,” Apollo commented with a frown. “Curious.”

“Off limits is the word,” Serina agreed, removing his hand from her bottom with a meaningful glance. “This is our level, I think.”

The elevator came to a stop at Level #2. A quick check of Boxey’s room showed that the boy was sleeping peacefully, his arm curled around the daggit droid. Muffit, obviously in surveillance mode, blinked at them warningly when they entered the room; then it recognized them and returned its attention to Boxey.

“Safe and sound, as you can see,” Apollo whispered, puling Serina to a dark corner and running a hand up and down her front before kissing her a bit aggressively, with lots of tongue. “Perhaps we can discuss my proposal now,” he added, pressing against her to make her feel his hardness.

Serina stifled another giggle. It was going way too fast for her taste, but it was glaringly obvious that they’d be _fracking_ like _leporids_ tonight, so there was no need to try postponing the inevitable. Besides, even a calculating woman had certain _needs_.

“Let’s dispose with ritual,” she suggested, reaching down and grabbing him through his trousers, not too gently. “My room is next door; let’s put it to proper use.”

She had barely finished the sentence when they were back on the corridor already. _Microns_ later she found herself lying on her back, on some smooth, hard surface, her skirts pushed up above her hips, and he was thrusting into her with all the pent-up frustration only a sexually deprived warrior could display. He was pinning her down by the shoulders, and as she was writhing under him, she vaguely realized that they hadn’t even managed to reach the bed.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
She woke up in the next morning with a raging hangover, sprawled on the bed, naked, with an equally naked Apollo still out like a light on her side. Somewhen during the night they must have relocated from the place of their first, furious coupling – which, she realized, must have been the coffee table – to the bed. Where, based on how much she hurt in places she’d long forgotten she even possessed, they must have gone several other rounds.

Whatever had been in that _fracking grog_ , she reconsidered taking any of it with her when they’d leave the planet. Some things were just not worth the headache in the morning after.

As if feeling that she was awake, Apollo opened his eyes and smiled at her contentedly.

“Good morning,” he murmured, completely oblivious to her discomfort. “Thank you for letting me come to you. It was a wonderful night.”

“For me, too,” she lied; rather convincingly, if she had to say so herself.

In truth, there had been nothing _wonderful_ in their shared night of passion for her. Yes, it had been good for scratching that itch she’d been having since their last encounter, and it apparently served her long-time goal. Apollo seemed suitably besotted. But that had been all. The young captain, while very passionate and with impressive stamina, definitely lacked the finesse she usually preferred in a lover. But that couldn’t be helped; not yet. He was her key to a safe and comfortable future; and for that, she had to put up with his amateurish technique.

Perhaps she’d be able to… _refine_ him later.

“And thanks for letting me get all that stuff out of my system,” he added, back to his customary serious self. “About Zack, I mean. I do feel better. It will take a while for the guilt to evaporate, as you suggest, but at least I feel better about myself.”

Serina withstood the urge to roll her eyes. It wouldn’t have been very effective anyway, naked and freshly ravished as she was. But really, did he expect her to be his psychotech, too? Did he want a wife or a mother?

“You should,” she lied with a slightly mocking smile, “You’re very valuable, Captain Apollo. A walking lode of Tylium, one might say.”

It had certainly felt like that last night when he’d exploded inside her.

“And just as dangerous?” he asked half-seriously.

“Well, it depends on what state you’re in, doesn’t it?” she returned. “Just like Tylium.”

Last night he’d been volatile enough indeed.

“You may have a point there,” he admitted, leaning in to kiss her.

She needed all her self-discipline _not_ to pull away from him. Morning breath was not high up on her list of things that should be shared. But careful calculation won over, and she accepted the kiss. Thankfully, it was a short and chaste one.

“We must clean up and get dressed,” she then said. “Boxey can come barging in any moment, and I don’t feel up to the usual talk about _apids_ and _avians_ right now.”

Apollo laughed and agreed. He didn’t want to get caught by a six- _yahren_ -old, naked, and in bed with the equally naked mother of aforementioned six- _yahren_ -old. That would have been beyond embarrassing. So they did their best to regain a respectable shape in record time, even if it meant to the indignity of sharing the turbowash, which Serina loathed and never did if she could avoid it. But time was the most pressing issue at the moment, so she had to compromise.

They were just leaving her room, fully dressed and looking _very_ respectable indeed, to look after Boxey, when two young lieutenants of the Blue Squadron came to fetch Apollo.

“Captain, good that we found you!” Boomer said in relief, while Starbuck was grinning lecherously, clearly not having any doubt _why_ they hadn’t found their squadron leader in the quarters assigned to him. “We’ve got to go back to the _Galactica_.”

“What for?” Apollo asked in surprise.

“Our dress uniforms,” Boomer replied flatly.

Then he waited for the explosion he knew would come. He was not disappointed.

“ _Dress uniforms_?” Apollo exclaimed. “Boomer, you know how I hate those things; I look like an idiot in those short capes. Besides, I’ve got a hangover and my head is too swollen to force it through one of those tight pectorals. I think I’ll pass, thank you, and leave the chance to look pretty to Starbuck here. He’s much better at it, and he at least enjoys dressing up.”

“Sorry, can’t do, Captain,” Boomer answered, while Starbuck was still grinning like a loon. “One does not accept our people’s highest military honour, the _Golden Cluster_ , in a battlesuit.”

That stopped Apollo in mid-rant. “A _star cluster_? You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope,” now Boomer was grinning, too. “For that matter, I get one, too. Even Starbuck here gets one, unlikely as it seems.”

“Hey!” Starbuck protested. “I went with you into that _fracking_ minefield blind, too!”

“You did,” Boomer agreed. “Which is why you get your own star cluster. Anyway, the awards ceremony is tonight and we need to wear our finery to honour the occasion.”

“Oh!” Apollo’s temporary excitement was dimming already. “But I had plans for today. Ones that didn’t involve the _Quorum of Twelve_ , to be honest.”

“You’ll have all the time you want for those plans,” Boomer’s eyes flickered briefly in Serina’s direction, making it clear that he had an educated guess about the nature of said plans. “ _After_ you’ve fetched your dress uniform from the _Galactica_.”

Serina took Apollo’s arm, who was still grumbling under his breath.

“Come on, my beautiful Captain,” she said. “I’ll walk you to the shuttle, and when you come back, Boxey and I will be waiting for you. Oh, and congratulations, by the way.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
She did indeed walk him to the shuttle that was taking him back to the _Galactica_ to get ready for the awarding of the star cluster and kissed him good-bye at the shuttle gangway, earning whistles and catcalls from Boomer, but especially Starbuck. They seemed quite pleased what they thought to be a long-overdue conquest of their way too sombre and restrained squadron leader. Good. They weren’t supposed to know what was truly going on, not yet.

After Apollo had entered the shuttle and the gangway had retracted, she was ordered back to a safe distance. She did as she’d been told, watching the shuttle take off. Then she returned to the casino to check on Boxey. She found him at the casino entrance, frolicking with the droid, and smiled at the almost idyllic scene. It seemed that _some_ order was edging its way back into her life. 

The thought pleased her. Order was necessary for any long-time plans to work.

“The boy is improving steadily,” a familiar, deep voice said behind her; turning around, she saw Patroclus leaving the casino and joining her.

“Yes, he does,” she agreed.

“You did a great job with him,” Patroclus continued. “I hope your other… project is making satisfying headway, too.”

She new, of course, what he meant, and she was getting a little annoyed. It wasn’t his business anymore, so why had he stuck that long nose of his into her private affairs?

“It’s going well enough, thank you,” she replied tersely. 

She was tempted to add that he should keep out of things that weren’t his business, but restrained herself in the last _micron_. Alienating Patroclus would have been a mistake. She could still need him later – in various functions.

“It will be a truly moving ceremony tonight,” Patroclus mused, seemingly without any connection to the topic they were not-discussing, but Serina knew him better. “Getting a star cluster is something that only happens once or twice in a warrior’s life. Awarding three young heroes with the _Golden Cluster_ at the same time is something that hadn’t happened for several hundred _yahrens_. Emotions will be running high.”

Serina gave him a sharp look, knowing there had to be more behind this. “Most likely, yes. And?”

“I assume you’ve heard about _Sire_ Uri’s grandiose idea of restoring peace,” he said, his cultured voice dripping with sarcasm. “He was a little… careless with his tongue last night; the effect of the _grog_ , no doubt.”

“If you mean his idiotic suggestion of destroying our arms, then yes, I’ve heard about it,” she replied. “How could anyone take that seriously?”

“People are tired of the war, Serina,” he said gently. “They’re tired of running, of being afraid and hungry, of living on some faint hope that one day we might find Earth… if the place exists at all. They’d do anything, even the most foolish and dangerous things, for a little peace. They would leave their ships and settle in this Elysium to escape any further suffering. They would gladly take this Ovion-infested rock instead of a highly uncertain future… can you blame them for that?”

“Not really,” Serina admitted; by all due respect for Commander Adama, she’d have preferred something more solid, something that she could have now, to something that might or might not be found. Patroclus nodded.

“Exactly. And that’s what _Sire_ Uri is counting on. She’s using people’s fear and longing to undermine Adama’s authority, as right now Adama is the only one who really believes in Earth; and that we may find it. If he can make people listen to him instead of Adama, he’s won.”

“How?” she asked incredulously. “By saluting the son of his greatest rival?”

Patroclus nodded. “Exactly. He’ll propose destroying our arms at the celebration. He’s hoping for a cascade of emotions that’ll do the damage before anyone realizes what they’ve done.”

She paled, realizing how right he was. “Sagan! We should warn Commander Adama!”

“Oh, I’m sure he already knows about it,” he said with a faint smile. “The old war daggit has been playing this power game for _dodecadas_ ; he’s surely made his contingency plans in due time and is putting them into effect as we’re speaking. Why else, do you think, did he order Apollo back to the _Galactica_ , when he could have simply sent that dress uniform down with a yeoman?”

“True enough,” Serina admitted. “The Commander is not easily fooled. But can he be certain, can _we_ be certain that he’ll be able to keep our people from doing something fundamentally stupid?”

“Not with absolute certainty,” Patroclus admitted, his elegant face grim. Serina frowned.

“Why did you warn me then? It’s not so that I could influence the people in any way. I’m no longer on Transmission; my voice won’t reach anyone.”

“Because the thought of staying here scares the _felgercarb_ out of me,” he confessed with brutal honesty, “and I needed to get it off my chest. Besides, if things go the wrong way, Captain Apollo might need a sympathetic ear – _if_ you’re still willing to offer him one, should his family get booted out of position,” he gave her a coldly understanding look. “I’d understand if you didn’t.”

She knew he would. But she was not about to give him any ammunition that might have been used against her later.

“I’ll cross that particular bridge when I have to,” she replied with equal coldness. “For now, I’m looking forward to seeing him honoured as he so richly deserves.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
According to her word, she and Boxey were waiting for Apollo near the landing area when the shuttle returned. She had to admit that he looked really dashing in his dress blues, no matter how much he hated them. Unfortunately, he also seemed to be in a really foul mood.

“What happened?” Serina asked quietly.

“My father happened,” Apollo was clearly fuming until that blank surface he showed in public. “He refuses to bring his case to the people!” He gave her a sideways glance. “Have you heard of Uri’s newest scheme?”

“That he’s planning to use _your_ award ceremony to suggest the destruction of our arms?” she clarified. “Yes, I have. Doctor Paye’s just told me. We’re… old acquaintances.”

“Meaning _what_ exactly?” he asked, suspicion clearly audible in his tone.

Serina took a deep breath. This was the moment of truth, leaving her with two equally perilous choices. She could lie to him, giving _Sire_ Uri excellent blackmail material; or she could tell him the truth and risk losing him. With religious Kobolians one could never be certain.

“I used to be his dependant,” she finally said, opting for the truth. Lying would only delay the inevitable. Too many people were aware of her shared past with Patroclus; and it would be much worse if Apollo learned it from somebody else.

She glanced at him nervously and saw, to her surprise, that he was smiling.

“You _knew_!” she realized with a shock. He was just testing her!

Apollo nodded. “Actually, _Omega_ knew it. There was a time when he visited _Sire_ Uri’s townhouse in Caprica City regularly. He recognized you when you gave your report on Transmission.”

“You’ve known it from the beginning, and you still brought me aboard the _Galactica_?” she could still hardly believe it. “I could have been one of _Sire_ Uri’s agents.”

“Which was the very reason why we wanted you in a position where we could keep an eye on you,” he admitted. Then he added with disarming honesty, “I just hadn’t expected to fall for you so fast and so hard.”

His confession touched her deeper than expected.

“Have you now?” she murmured. “And your father doesn’t mind you socializing with a woman of such… colourful past?”

“My father is glad that I’ve shown interest for _any_ woman of acceptable breeding, as I’m sure he’s already told you himself,” his green eyes were twinkling with self-deprecating humour. “This has been his main concern in the last twelve or so _yahrens_. I think he was even afraid I might turn out _flit_ … he probably even suspected that I’d secretly _frack_ Starbuck, and that’s why I hardly ever courted.”

“And?” Serina opted for the direct approach. “Did you?”

He stared at her in almost comical shock. “ _Me? Starbuck_? Not in a million _yahrens_! He’s my best friend, for Sagan’s sake!”

“That wouldn’t stop an Aquarian,” she pointed out. “Or a Gemon.”

“Yes, but I’m a Caprican,” he answered. “We don’t do that sort of thing.”

“You mean _you_ don’t,” she corrected gently. “You’d be surprised to know what _other_ Capricans are ready and willing to do when they think they won’t get caught.”

“Well, I’m not _other Capricans_ , either,” he replied, a little indignantly.

She laughed and leaned towards him to kiss him on the cheek.

“I know. You’re my shining hero who’d never leave the path of righteousness.” He turned to kiss her properly, buts he raised a hand to stop him. “Later,” she murmured. “I’ll do better in private.”

Apollo looked as if he were about to suggest something… _specific_ for their later privacy – for a supposedly rigid and suppressed Kobolian he was learning really fast – when he was distracted by a man, wearing the dress uniform of the _Galactica_.

“Strange,” he muttered.

“What’s it?” Serina asked.

“Look at that guy,” Apollo directed her attention discretely to the man, whose pectoral was clearly too large for his neck and whose sleeves hung down past his knuckles.

She didn’t understand the problem. “What about him?”

“He wears the insignia of Blue Squadron,” Apollo explained. “I thought I knew _everyone_ in Blue Squadron; I ought to, considering that I’m their squadron leader. I don’t recall ever seeing _him_ before, though.”

Serina shrugged, still not really seeing his problem.

“Maybe he transferred in from one of the other units. Or he’s a survivor from one of the other battlestars.”

Apollo shook his head. “I know most of them also; I’m the Strike Captain, after all, and work with all squadrons from time to time. He also seems a shade too old for combat duty – and did you see the fit of that uniform? Or rather the lack thereof?”

“Well, how often did you get to wear your dress blues?” Serina asked reasonably. “He probably bought it when he was a couple of sizes larger and hasn’t worn it for _yahrens_. Due to the food shortage many people have lost a lot of weight lately.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Apollo admitted, “but…”

Serina interrupted his brooding firmly.

“In any case, the guest of honour fits into his uniform quite neatly,” she said, “and looks delicious, I might add.”

He blushed a little and squeezed her hand thankfully. But his eyes were still searching for the man in the oversized uniform when the elevator arrived.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The sight that greeted them when they stepped out of the elevator cabin was truly astonishing. The Ovions, as anxious to serve as ever, had rearranged the whole casino for the award ceremony. Artfully draped lengths of soft fabric – thin like _crawler_ webs and shiny like silk – decorated the walls. Multi-coloured lights had been arranged in flower-like patterns to add to the festive atmosphere. 

Acrobats and entertainers of various species performed their acts at one end of the cavernous room. A female dancer, wearing nothing but two extremely small pieces of translucent silk was whirling around with fans of white feather almost as big as she herself, drawing all male eyes to her production. A great number of men in full military dress uniform completed the decorative picture.

“Impressive,” Serina judged, watching three humanoid artists who were hanging from the ceiling, twisting their slim bodies to knots that should have been impossible for anyone with a solid spinal column while slowly spinning in a circle. “The Ovions have really fixed up this place attractively. They know their stuff; one has to give them that.”

Before Apollo could have answered – if he had any answer for that indeed – he was bumped rudely by a man in a _Galactica_ dress uniform. He was about to give the _boray_ a piece of his mind, but the elevator doors closed in his face. For a moment, he stared at the closed doors in silent fury. No warrior with a healthy sense of self-preservation would dare to behave like that towards the Strike Captain of the _Galactica_. Something was very odd about this man and his companions who had rushed into the elevator cabin with him.

As if answering his thoughts, Starbuck came running up to them. “Captain, those men that just got on the elevator…”

“Yes, I’ve got a strong tactile impression of one of them,” Apollo replied dryly. “Care to tell me what’s it all about?”

“Something is going on around here, and I don’t like the feel of it all,” Starbuck told him helpfully.

Apollo rolled his eyes. “Try to be slightly more specific, Starbuck. _Something_ is a rather vague concept, you know.”

Starbuck did him the favour. “I think those three were impostors,” he said. “In no way were they warriors, and even less so ones of our own squadron. Somebody else’s wearing our uniforms, or duplicates of our uniforms. Can we talk?”

Apollo nodded. “Of course,” then he turned to Serina apologetically. “Serina, will you excuse me? The lieutenant needs attention.”

That was the last thing she wanted to do, but she knew she had no choice in this. Not _yet_ anyway.

“Sure, but not for long, all right?” she gave him her most dazzling smile. “I’ll take Boxey and see if we can get something to eat.”

As if on clue, the droid sprang out of the boy’s arms and ran into the main room of the casino. Naturally, Boxey ran after it, yelling its name in very obvious frustration.

“Well, it seems I must go,” Serina felt every bit as frustrated, although _not_ with the droid. “But you two, don’t belong. You don’t want to miss your own honours ceremony, do you?” she added sweetly, putting an extra sway in her gait as she walked off after Boxey.

She went straight into the main room, where she was instantly spotted by _Sire_ Uri, who was sitting on a podium with the other _Quorum_ members on low, comfortable couches covered with red velvet. He gestured her to approach the podium. She felt a bit uncomfortable by his sudden attention; fortunately, he only wanted to know where Captain Apollo was.”

“He’ll be here in a moment, I’m sure,” she replied, hoping that she was right. “His wingman held him up with something.”

 _Sire_ Uri glared at the very obviously uncomfortable Boomer, the only one of the three awardees currently on the platform.

“Lieutenant, I suggest you find your two friends and tell them we’re going to begin,” the Councillor said. “With or without them.”

Boomer snapped to attention and jumped off the podium, relief clearly written in his handsome features. _Sire_ Uri turned to Serina.

“I’d like to speak with you later,” he said. “Alone.”

“That would be hardly appropriate, _Sire_ Uri,” Serina replied, trying to hide her dread, for that could mean several different things, none of them promised to be pleasant. “After all, you’re still grieving, aren’t you?”

Not waiting for an answer, she turned around and went to find Boxey, forcing herself to walk calmly and with dignity, although she’d have liked to run away screaming.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
It took her some time to locate the boy on the other side of the huge casino. He was still chasing after Muffit Two. The daggit-droid was sniffing around an elaborately decorated screen that appeared to block off a small part of the room. As if picking up a trail, Muffit scampered behind the screen – much to Boxey’s exasperation.

“Muffy!” he yelled and ran after his mechanical pet. “Come back here, you daggit!”

Serina smiled involuntarily. It was good to see Boxey so animated again. Annoying as the droid could be sometimes, it saved the boy from drowning in depression. She’d been right – this was definitely a thing for which she owed one to Apollo. But now it was time for Boxey to eat something, so he decided to herd in him and Muffit.

She followed them behind the screen, but all she found was an overturned chair. Boxey and his daggit were not there.

She stomped down on her rising panic ruthlessly. There was no need for that, not yet. They could have gotten back into the casino in that crowd without her spotting them.

“Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic,” she muttered ad a mantra, rushing back into the main room. But it wasn’t working very well.

On the podium, _Sire_ Uri had made some excuses for the missing guests of honour and was now launching into a grand speech about rebirth, about wiping the slate clean of animosities, of displaying peace to their former foes and other such nonsense.

“This night we celebrate a most special event in the annals of human experience,” he began in grand style. “An opportunity to turn our backs on the era of darkness that lies behind us. To use this occasion to invoke in each of us a rebirth. Let us wipe the slate clean of prejudices against any living brother, whether a former friend or foe…”

The cheer that went up almost deafened Serina. People were applauding – had they all gone mad? Granted, _Sire_ Uri had always been an effective rhetor, but were people truly so gullible? Had they forgotten already what Cylons were willing and able to do? 

“…an opportunity to throw down our arms and prove once and for all that peace begets peace and love begets love,” Uri droned on.

Serina rolled her eyes in disgust. She remembered vividly her mother’s favourite comment about panaceas being a cubit a dozen but solutions costing much, much more. She couldn’t believe that people were actually listening to this _felgercarb_ – but to her utter dismay, they were. She could even see tears in the eyes of quite a few.

She needed to alert someone, anyone that _Sire_ Uri was about to win the day and doom them all. But first, she needed to find Boxey. And where was Apollo? Her eyes darted around nervously, and she felt a chill run down her spine when she saw more and more Ovions gathering slowly near the exits of the casino.

Alarm klaxons went off in her head, and she had to force herself to walk calmly across the main room, trying to locate Patroclus, or one of the Viper pilots of the _Galactica_ – anyone she could trust.

She found none.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
She had searched throughout the spacious room and was rapidly becoming frantic. There was no trace of Boxey, or that stupid droid of his. At one point, she spotted Colonel Tigh, looking absolutely magnificent in his dress blues, and elbowed her way through the crowd to him.

“Colonel,” she pleaded, “I need your help!”

But the Commander’s aide was staring intently at a small electronic device, concealed in his palm, and waved her away.

“Not now, Serina.”

She looked around frantically. She didn’t know what to do. This was way beyond her experiences; she was out of her depth. If only Apollo would finally come back, she thought, he’d now how to deal with the problem. He was a warrior, dammit!

On the podium, _Sire_ Uri had brought the crowd to repeated cheers and excited ovations, and was now about to reach the most important part of his speech.

“And so I implore you all to join with me in the spirit of this great communion and put your faith in me and go to the Cylons,” he cried out passionately. “For I tell you that this night will be remembered as the foundation upon which he floor of peace was laid to last for eternity. I give you the hope that…”

 _Idiot!_ Serina felt like screaming in frustration and wished she had a blaster to shut him up permanently. How could people still fall for his rhetoric, despite all contrary evidence?

Thankfully, before Uri could have spewed any more nonsense, the elevator doors opened and Apollo, Starbuck and Boomer charged in. Apollo aimed at the ceiling with his blaster and fired. That got everyone’s attention; people turned towards him in shocked surprise.

“Everyone begin to move quickly and orderly towards the exits,” Apollo shouted. “That is an order!”

“Stand where you are!” _Sire_ Uri yelled from the podium indignantly. “ _I am_ in charge here!”

“You wish!” Serena muttered under her breath angrily.

Nonetheless – used to listen to their Councillors – the crowd was still hesitant to move. Those stupid _ovines_!

At the same moment something metallic glinted behind the Ovions blocking the entranceway. A group of Cylon centurions marched up with heavy, determined steps and began firing at the crowd without warning. Everyone screamed and scrambled for cover, mass panic threatening to break out and finish the job for the Cylons.

“Listen to Apollo!” _Sire_ Uri hollered, his voice ridiculously high-pitched in panic. "Do what he says. He’s in charge here.”

 _A bit late for reconsidering, but better late than never_ , Serina thought with bitter satisfaction.

She was darkly amused to see that Uri was the first to hightail it to the outside through a doorway where Boomer and Starbuck had wiped out the entire contingent of Cylons. In the meantime several other warriors, wearing Red Squadron insignia, had produced weapons from somewhere. Laser fire was criss-crossing in all directions. Voices screamed, and lights – hit by random shots – began to sizzle in and out.

Elysium was rapidly turning into Hades incarnate, and it seemed highly unlikely that they would make out of here alive.


	16. Chapter 14 - Fire Below Carillon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike the series, I use Glen A. Larsen’s original concept of Cylons being born as organic beings and turned into semi-organic machines gradually. The original concept had them as reptiloid cyborgs, which I find more interesting than merely out-of-control robots.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
CHAPTER 14 – FIRE BELOW CARILLON

In the ensuing chaos Serina’s main concern was to find Boxey before the boy would be caught in the crossfire or get trampled down by the panicking masses.

“Boxey!” she screamed, dodging around upturned tables and fallen chairs towards the elevator bank. “Boxey, where are you? Boxey!”

“Mommy!” the high little voice finally answered, when she’d almost given up hope, and in the next moment she spotted the boy, covering behind Apollo. She ran to them and picked him up in her arms, clinging to him for dear life.

“Boxey,” she all but sobbed. “Boxey, you’re alive…”

“Over that way!” Apollo cried, reminding her that this wasn’t the time for an emotional breakdown. “That entrance is clear now! Follow me quickly!”

He led them through one of those hexagonal-patterned, semi-translucent yellow archways that seemed ever-present on the planet, even in the areas built for entertaining human guests. Outside, it was as gloomy as ever, with the addition of rain stinging their faces. Red beams from Cylon helmets cut through the darkness, scanning the area for new targets, and behind the beams the bulky, glittering figures of Cylon centurions could be vaguely seen.

Serina was petrified with terror. In theory, she knew what a Cylon was supposed to look like, of course. _Everyone_ in the Twelve Colonies had known it for the last thousand _yahrens_. They’d all been shown footage and blueprints. But aside from the infantry troops, nobody had actually _seen_ a live Cylon… _live_ being relative, of course. Even the combat pilots only ever got to do with the Cylon raiders, fighting them from the cockpits of their Vipers, out in space – very rarely the Cylons themselves.

Watching the somewhat clumsy killing machines from behind the _grog_ fountain, where Apollo had pushed them to have _some_ cover at least, her fear became mind-numbing. It was hard to imagine that these… _things_ had been born as living creatures, fitted out with more and more biomechanical parts during their accelerated growing process, until they became nothing but an armoured metal suit, steered by an organic brain – the only part of the original being that remained. 

They didn’t look like living beings at all! They appeared entirely mechanical – soulless – moving forward with slow, indifferent precision, driven by their main directive: to wipe out all human life. 

Because human life, with its relative freedom and individuality, offended their rigid sense of order. And because they _could_. 

And _Sire_ Uri had been stupid enough to believe he could negotiate with _them_? 

The battle raging on around and inside the casino made it adamantly clear that any such delusional attempt would be doomed from the beginning. 

“We don’t have enough firepower,” she heard Apollo mutter angrily next to her. “There were too many fake blasters among that fake Blue Squadron.” 

“W-what fake Blue Squadron?” she asked, her teeth audibly clattering in fear. 

Apollo squeezed her hand encouragingly. “I’ll explain alter – assuming we make it out of here in one piece. I still don’t know what was in my father’s mind when…” 

He was interrupted by the unexpected, albeit very welcome appearance of a landram over the hill near the fountain, with the massive shape of Sergeant Jolly mounted on a gun turret. The fat pilot started blasting in a wide angle, mowing down an entire group of Cylons in mere _microns_. 

“He’s zeroing in on them by the light of their helmet beams!” Apollo realized, grinning like a loon. “Good work, Jolly! You two, stay under cover for the moment; I’ll be back.” 

He ran to the landram on which Jolly sat, without waiting for her answer. At the same time, another two landrams appeared, their gunners randomly firing at Cylons and Ovions. 

“Assemble squadron!” Apollo cried, reaching the landram and scrambling aboard. “Where the Hades did you come from, Jolly? Not that I weren’t deliriously happy to see you…” 

“We’re here courtesy of Commander Adama, Captain,” Jolly replied. “He sent the landrams to cover for you guys in case a fighting broke out in the casino.” 

“He _knew_ it would happen?” Apollo was truly astonished. Jolly nodded, grinning from ear to ear. 

“Your father is not easily fooled, Captain. He also ordered us to collect Red Squadron and get them to their Vipers. Which happen to be down on the planet – well, most of them.” 

“Red? Why just Red?” Apollo was till a little perplexed. 

Jolly grinned manically as he fired off another round, mowing down several of the approaching Cylons. 

“Blue didn’t get to go to the party to begin with, sir,” he explained. “Except for Boomer and Starbuck, that is, who had to play hero with you down here, at the Councillor’s little celebration,” he shrugged and fired again. “Guess all three of you had to go, so _Sire_ Uri wouldn’t get wise he didn’t have all the military personnel at the party.” 

Apollo frowned. “I see. But if Blue didn’t go to the party, who were those guys wearing our uniforms?” 

“Anybody the commander could find aboard the _Galactica_ to fill the uniforms,” Jolly told him; then he broke into another broad grin. “You should have seen the guy who got _mine_.” 

Apollo grinned, too, remembering the man in the oversized uniform he’d seen in the casino. “I think I did, Jolly.” 

The shooting had quieted down in the meantime and then stopped entirely. The Ovions were scattering, probably seeking refuge in the hidden access tunnels to their subterranean halls, and even the Cylons seemed to be retreating, away from the casino. 

“What are those _fracking_ tinheads up to now?” Apollo swore. He preferred them in clear sight, where he could shoot them better. 

Jolly shrugged. “I’m not sure; but before Hades broke loose, I received a report that air activity had been tracked by scanner on the _Galactica_. They thought it might be Cylon fighters. The tinheads may be returning to their ships." 

“Then we better get to ours and damn fast!” 

Apollo jumped off the landram and looked around, trying to assess the situation. From the main entranceway of he casino, the rest of the guests was scrabbling out, heading his direction. Starbuck and Boomer were assembling the genuine warriors – basically Red Squadron – who were eager to give the Cylons Hades. Apollo joined them and explained as succinctly as he could what he’d just learned from Jolly. 

“Red Squadron, you’re to go ahead with the first landram. Your Vipers have been secretly taken down to the planet – go and get them. You’ll be at slight disadvantage, starting from the surface, but hopefully you’ll be spaceborne before the Cylon attack force reaches the fleet. Starbuck, Boomer, go with them!” 

“What about you?” Starbuck asked. 

“I’ll follow you in a minute,” Apollo promised. “I just need someone to take care of the civilians. Get into the landram in the meantime!” 

The pilots nodded, and Apollo looked around frantically for the right person he might be able to trust. After a _micron_ , he spotted the tall, patrician figure of Doctor Paye among the hysterical guests. Unlike the others, the Aquarian was remarkably disciplined, even though deathly pale. But again, he was a doctor. He’d been trained to deal with hysterical patients. He’d have to do. 

“Patroclus!” Apollo cried out, using the man’s true name deliberately to get his attention. 

He succeeded. Paye’s head snapped around; then, recognizing him, he relaxed slightly. 

“Apollo,” he acknowledged the Strike Captain. “How can I help?” 

“I need you to take care of the civilians,” Apollo replied. “Round them up and get them to the shuttles. We’ll have a little fighting to do before we could follow.” 

Paye looked at him for a moment intently; then he nodded. “All right. You can count on me.” 

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Apollo gestured for the Red pilots to follow him to the first landram. “Thanks.” 

“All part of my job,” Paye shrugged; then he raised his voice, so that the panicking civilians could all hear him. “All right, people, listen to me! These landrams will take you to the shuttles. No, we can only hope to get out of here relatively unharmed if we do this in proper order. So, I want the women and the children to gather first…” 

His calm, collected voice – his _bedside_ voice, as he always called it – helped Serina to pull herself together; at least on the surface. She picked up Boxey and joined the steadily growing group of frightened women and children heading towards the second landram. Muffit scurried after them dutifully. 

Reaching the vehicle, they were joined by Colonel Tigh, still in his dress blues that were now somewhat tattered and soiled, holding his left arm, which hung limply at his side. 

“Are you injured, Colonel?” she asked. 

Tigh grinned like a _lupine_ , his teeth flashing very white in his dark face, seeming every bit the reckless warrior he was said to have been in his youth. 

“Just a stray shot from a Cylon blaster,” he replied dismissively, his eyes glittering with the excitement of the recent combat. “I got at least five of them first, though.” 

He clearly missed the good old days when he’d been allowed to fight in the front line, instead of being trapped on the bridge of the _Galactica_ , forced to watch helplessly the younger generation fight – and die. 

“You should go with the first shuttle, sir,” Apollo, running up to them, said, but Tigh shook his head determinedly. 

“Not yet. I’ll go with the last one. I still have a working blaster – and _one_ good hand to fire it. These people might need protection.” 

Apollo knew there was no use arguing with him. Tigh took _duty_ very seriously. So, instead he turned to Serina apologetically. 

“Take care of yourself,” he said. “I’m very sorry, but…” 

Serina silenced him by grabbing him by his lapels and kissing him hard, ignoring the disgusted looks Boxey shot her. The boy didn’t condone what he called “yucky stuff”. 

“We’ll be fine,” she said. “Get going.” 

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
He did, climbing into the landram with Boomer, Starbuck and the rest of the pilots and the vehicle set off at once. Patroclus gave Serina a gentle shove. 

“We must go, too,” he reminded her. “We have no time to waste.” 

More people were fleeing from the casino as he spoke, screaming and stumbling over each other in their panic. Behind them a fresh troop of Cylons emerged, their weapons blazing. A man in civilian garb, who’d almost reached the landrams, got hit, wavered and fell – and didn’t get up again. A woman broke through the crowd, ran to him, stumbling over the hem of her long skirt, fell to her knees and tried to help him up, but to no avail. She hugged his lifeless body, sobbing uncontrollably. 

“Serina!” Patroclus hissed, grabbing her arm with a vice-like grip. “Get in the landram! You can’t help them!” 

She knew he was right, but it was a hard thing to do. It could have been _her_ in that crowd, defenceless and beyond help. But she had to think of Boxey now, and so she pulled herself together. She climbed into the landram, while Patroclus picked up a kicking and flailing Boxey and practically threw him inside. 

Boxey protested stubbornly. “Muffit! We can’t go without Muffit!” 

Quite frankly, Serina couldn’t care less what was happening to the stupid droid, but she knew the child would see it differently. 

“Ssssh!” she said. “Muffit can take care of himself. He’s a clever one. Now, come with me and be quiet!” 

But Boxey was crying inconsolably, and she needed all her strength to drag him away from the entrance, so that other people could get into the landram, too. 

Finally, the vehicle was full – probably a great deal fuller than originally supposed to – and they set off with the best speed the heavy and clumsy thing was capable of. Capable – but not usually meant to. It was a bumpy ride, although, fortunately, a short one. They were all bruised and hurting when it reached the landing area, someone even sported a broken arm. 

Serina climbed out of the landram, dragging a crying Boxey after herself – and stopped in astonishment. Beyond the parking shuttlecraft, she could see row upon row of sleek, battle-ready Vipers on the ground, waiting for their pilots to take them into battle. Said pilots were climbing into the cockpits already, putting on their helmets. 

“Emergency takeoff in five _microns_!” someone yelled. She recognized Apollo’s voice. 

“But they haven’t got their pressure suits on!” somebody else protested. “Will they survive the takeoff at all?” 

“Actually, it’s the launch tubes they need the suits for,” she heard Patroclus explain. “The G-forces are a lot less dangerous when they launch from the planet surface. And they’re trained to endure pressure up to four G without a suit. It won’t be pleasant, but they will survive, and they won’t pass out in a crucial moment.” 

Serina had her doubts about _that_ , and it made her worried. Dead pilots in uncontrollable Vipers weren’t much of a protection, after all. But she could not waste any more time on the problem. The shuttles were ready to take off, and they had to board them, had to leave Carillon while they still could. 

Patroclus stuffed as many people into the shuttle as it was physically possible. They could not take such matters as overcrowding the vessel into consideration; they might not have the chance to come back for those left behind. Boxey was still bawling for that stupid droid of his, and Serina began to doubt that gifting Muffit II upon him had really been such a good idea from Apollo. 

She picked up Boxey and pushed through the crowd with him right forward to the cockpit, where they could crouch down in a corner, next to the door. She knew the takeoff would be rough, with twice as many people aboard as there should have been, and she wanted to spare the boy – and herself – any unnecessary injuries. 

Plus, from here she could hear the pilot talking to Flight Control. She preferred to be prepared whatever might come. 

“ _Galactica_ Flight Control, this is Shuttlecraft Number One, ready to takeoff,” a female voice that she recognized as Dietra’s was saying. 

She relaxed a little. Dietra was the best shuttle pilot in the whole fleet; with her at the controls, they actually had a chance to make it. 

“Start when ready,” the voice of Rigel, the flight control officer of the _Galactica_ , answered. “And hurry up! We’ve got incoming war machines on short-range sensors, reaching killing range in forty-five _microns_.” 

“We’ll be there in twenty,” Dietra replied confidently; then she switched on the loudspeakers. “Prepare for emergency takeoff in five-four-three-two-one – now!” 

With a great lurch, the shuttle abruptly left the surface in a very steep, almost vertical vector. Dietra was clearly trying to reach the _Galactica_ in record time. Serina felt her stomach twist uncomfortably, and for a moment she thought she’d become sick. But this was not her first time in an evacuation shuttle, and with some effort, she forced her stomach to quiet down. 

Boxey was less fortunate; he threw up unceremoniously all over her, and by the noise in the unlit passenger area, several people did the same. Others were shrieking in panic, and somebody was sobbing loudly. There would be more injuries by the time they got back to the _Galactica_ – assuming that they’d make it. 

“Sorry,” Dietra told them through the loudspeakers. “We don’t have the time to do this the easy way. Hang on, people, we’re almost home.” 

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The twenty- _micron_ -ride to the _Galactica_ was a nightmare in the overcrowded, dark and stinking shuttlecraft. What made it even worse was the knowledge that they had to reach the Battlestar before the Cylon attack would hit. Boxey, not really understanding what was going on, was whimpering quietly, too scared to even cry anymore. The panic of the adults was having a deteriorating effect on him. 

Twisting her upper body, Serina managed to glance out of the small window behind her. Something grey was filling her field of vision, and she understood that they were approaching the _Galactica_ rapidly. From the corner of her eye she could even catch a glimpse of the lights of the landing bay. The tight knot in her stomach loosened a tiny fraction. They’d almost made it. 

The lights came closer, then they engulfed the entire shuttlecraft, and in the next moment they touched ground – surprisingly gently. Serina remembered what Dietra and Brie had said about their abilities to set down a shuttle like a raw egg and realized that they hadn’t been exaggerating. 

“Stay where you are!” Dietra warned her passengers through the loudspeakers. “We must wait until all shuttles have landed and the bay has been pressurized again. Don’t try to leave the craft; the door’s locked anyway and only I can release the lock.” 

It took about three more _microns_ until the other shuttles landed, too, and the doors were finally released. A lot of people, wearing the black uniforms of Council Security, were waiting to lead people to the emergency shelters. They’d be returned to their respective ships later, when the battle was over. Right now, they had to clear the landing bay, as soon as possible, so that the shuttles could try to make another run for the people still on the planet. 

“Don’t return to the _Galactica_ with them,” Security Chief Reese told the shuttle pilots. “We’ll be engaged in battle by then. Take them to the _Rising Star_ and the Gemini fighters. Commander's orders.” 

The pilots acknowledged their orders and climbed back into their shuttles, ready to launch as soon as the by was cleared. Reese escorted Serina to the snap doors personally. 

“Commander Adama wants you in Core Centre,” he told her. “Said something about recording the battle.” 

She looked down at her ugly blue dress, now wearing the telltale signs of Boxey’s recent sickness. “Like this?” 

“I doubt the Commander would care,” Reese answered with a shrug, “but Lieutenant Athena sends you this.” He handed her a hooded tunic. It was a bit large in size but at least covered the soiled part of her dress. She pulled it over and followed the man out of the landing bay. 

On their way to the bridge, one of the instructors came to take a reluctant Boxey with her to the Children Care Centre. Serina was impressed by Athena’s obvious attention to detail – and that in the middle of a crisis, right after having caught Starbuck with that little blonde tramp! Clearly, she was nothing if not professional. 

Core Centre was an _apid_ -hive of subdued activity. When she entered the huge room, her first glance fell on the large tactical display, showing a chequered grid of their immediate surroundings, with the symbol of the _Galactica_ in the centre of several concentric rings. The outer ring was marked red, and a great number of small triangular symbols were approaching that red circle. 

“Enemy vessels are closing in,” the calm, collected voice of Flight Control Officer Rigel was saying at the same moment. “Thirty _microns_ until reaching killing range.” 

_Thirty_? Dietra must have made the trip from the planet in a mere fifteen _microns_ , then. No wonder they had been shaken up so much! 

“Recall all warriors from the surface,” Adama instructed Flag Lieutenant Omega, the head of the bridge crew, who nodded and hurried off to carry out his orders. 

“Twenty-five _microns_ and closing,” sweet-faced Rigel counted down calmly. 

Adama spotted Serina standing in the doorway and waved her closer. 

“I’m grateful that you’ve made it back in time, my dear,” he said with fatherly warmth. “Why don’t you go to your office and start recording? _If_ we make it out of this trap, I want the upcoming generations to learn from it something important.” 

“And that would be?” she couldn’t help but ask. 

“That one should never make the same mistake twice,” Adama replied grimly. “The Cylons have lured us into a trap once – never again.” 

“But we _are_ sitting in a trap, aren’t we?” she asked, gesturing towards the tactical screen. 

Adama gave her a grim smile. “Not as much as they would like us to,” he replied. “Watch!” 

Serina ran to her office and started the recorder, using the view of several external sensors. She’d cut them together to a coherent report later; right now the important thing was to get as many details as possible. Then she hurried back to the bridge, where she could watch the battle on the big screen. 

“Launch all Vipers,” Adama ordered, and Omega pressed the alarm button. 

“Blue and Green Squadrons, get ready to launch,” he ordered. 

The klaxon went off immediately. The screen showing the pilot’s ready room switched on, showing a number of warriors scrambling to their feet and running to the corridor. On the launch board, squares of light flashed on, indicating each Viper warming up in its launch crib. When all the lights had flashed on, Omega said in his calm, even voice – his _bridge voice_ , as the pilots, whose lives often depended on his concentration, used to call it: 

“Commander, defence wings Number One and Number Three have launched.” 

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Serina watched the launch on the big screen with bated breath. The Vipers flying in pre-battle formation were an awesome sight, and she felt hope rising in her heart again, despite the sheer overwhelming odds against them. One after another, the sleek machines peeled off and followed the flight corridor Apollo, Starbuck and Boomer had cleared for the bigger ships only days earlier, going out in a single file to confront the approaching enemy. 

“Ten _microns_ and closing,” Rigel reported. “Telemetry reports indicate that the Cylon task force counts three entire flights.” 

Serina wasn’t entirely sure how many Cylon fighters that meant, but seeing how Athena had gone stark white, it couldn’t have good news. 

“Our squadrons won’t stand a chance,” the Commander’s daughter whispered. 

“They won’t be alone for long,” Adama replied. “The others are on their way and, using the contingency battle plan; they’ll be joining Blue and Green Squadrons shortly.” 

“Enemy closing in: five _microns_ ,” Rigel said. “Colonel Tigh reports that Red Squadron has taken off. The Colonel himself is on his way back with the last shuttle.” 

“Will they get in before we engage the enemy?” Adama asked. 

“Doubtful, sir,” Rigel answered, “but Dietra is a good pilot. They might make it nonetheless.” 

Adama nodded, pushing the concern for his oldest, best friend in the back of his mind. Right now, he had more pressing issues to care for. 

“Cylon attack force now at killing range,” Athena announced, and everyone on the bridge tensed. “First defence wing is about to make contact with the enemy.” 

As the defence wing came into view on the main screen, Serina was shocked by how pitifully small they looked against the wall of the Cylon armada. 

“Oh, by the Lords of Kobol…” they could hear one of the pilots murmuring over his comm. 

In the next moment, one of the lead Cylon ships went into a roll and fired of both laser cannons as it flew by a Viper. The Viper, unprepared for the attack, took the hit full on and exploded, nearly blinding everyone on the bridge as they watched it on the screen. 

“Positive shield, now,” Adama ordered. “Switch the main screen to tactical display. Activate laser turrets.” 

Athena pushed a button and the thick metal hatches closed before the large window planes – still, they had the time to see two more Vipers being wiped out by the Cylons. Red emergency lights blinked on on the bridge, and Omega activated the automated board guns of the _Galactica_. 

The tightly bundled laser beams of the Battlestar’s main weapons swept away the first rows of the Cylon fighters. Only one of them could get through; the main screen, now in tactical modus, showed its symbol hit upon one of the landing bays and explode. 

“Fire in Landing Bay Beta,” Omega reported with eerie calm. He was famous for never losing his nerve in battle, and now Serina could see that his fame was well-founded. 

“Damage controls,” Adama replied, equally focused. 

“There are too many of them!” Ensign Greenbean’s near hysterical voice resounded through the bridge. “Roll out, hit them from the sides!” 

The Colonial Vipers pulled off, but they looked too thinly spread to do much damage, and the majority of the Cylon attack force was still outside the range of the _Galactica_ ’s board cannons. 

“Where in Hades is Red Squadron?” Greenbean shouted, frantic with nerves. 

As if mocking his panic, two more Vipers exploded simultaneously. 

“So much for trying to hit them from the sides,” another pilot muttered angrily. 

Athena turned around, her face white with terror, and knowing as Serina did that she wasn’t one to panic easily, that was a frightening sight. “There’s nothing to stop them!” 

At the same time, the tactical view switched to another sensor input, showing the symbol of Carillon and a number of flying objects ascend from the planet surface like a swarm of angry _apids_. 

“Sir, telemetry reports incoming surface party,” Omega reported. “Form scan positive: they’re not Cylon war machines. They’re ours, every single one of them.” 

Colonel Tigh, having actually managed to get back just in time, thanks to Dietra’s piloting wizardry, entered the bridge in that very moment, and walked up to Adama. He was still holding his arms and must have been a great deal of pain, but he was ignoring it for the sake of more important things. 

“It seems that a lot of our pilots have violated orders and skipped the party, Commander,” he deadpanned. 

Adama nodded, his face revealing nothing. “it seems so, doesn’t it? Remind me, Colonel, to discuss discipline in the ranks.” 

Tigh snapped to attention. “Yes, sir!” he replied crisply, but his barely suppressed grin ruined the effect somewhat. 

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the meantime Red Squadron reached the battlefield and the warriors threw themselves into the fight with passion. The tactical display marked the name of the pilot from each individual ship, so it was easy to follow the events – easy and doubly frightening, now that one knew for whom to tremble. 

Serina saw Apollo’s ship fire at a Cylon fighter, slicing it into ragged fragments. Then she could hear his voice, too, warning one of his fellow pilots. 

“Look out on your wing, Jolly!” 

“Which one?” the laconic voice of the fat pilot responded. “They’re all over the place, Captain. They’re…” 

He was interrupted by a hit on his tail. His Viper started rocking from side to side. 

“There’s too many of them, Captain!” Greenbean cried, panicking in earnest; not that it would stop him from firing at the Cylons like a vengeance demon, though. 

“What do you mean _too many_?” Jolly asked, seemingly unperturbed, and Serina was surprised by that; she’d never have thought that the overweight pilot would be so calm in the middle of a battle. “I’m here, aren’t I? Watch out to the left, Captain!” 

Thanks to his warning, Apollo evaded a Cylon fighter with a sweep left and a quarter turn and a spin to the right. It was like watching a ballet – only a lot more deadly. Because when he came out of the spin, he opened fire, cleaving his attacker across the middle with a clean shot. Both pieces skewered out of control and fell back towards Carillon. Serina pressed a hand to her mouth in fear and excitement. This was the first time for her to actually see how the young heroes, of whose deeds she’d so often reported in Transmission, fought the enemy – and enemy that outnumbered them by several magnitudes. 

Another Cylon raider scooped around, tracking Apollo’s wake and firing. Apollo put his Viper into a reverse loop, coming down on the Cylon from above, like an _avian_ -of-prey, and running a line of fire along the top of the entire spacecraft. A sudden explosion followed, instantly transforming the Cylon ship to debris. It was an amazing maneuver, more so considering that he was one of the only three pilots without a pressure suit on. Serina was surprised that he hadn’t passed out in the middle of that loop, but Patroclus must have been right: the Colonial pilots were well-trained and could endure a lot. 

“Commander,” one of the sensor crew reported, “four Cylon fighters have come out from behind the cloud over Carillon and are about to attack Red Squadron from behind.” 

“Activate defence grid Gamma,” Adama ordered. 

“Yes, sir,” Omega, sitting at the console of the tactical officer, answered crisply and moved his hands across the controls like a virtuoso giving a piano concert. 

Catching the Cylon ships as they attempted a flyby, the _Galactica_ fired her long-range laser cannons. The four ships exploded almost simultaneously. 

Serina caught herself cheering with he bridge crew. 

Red Squadron, led by Apollo, Starbuck and Boomer, was now in the centre of the battle. The Vipers of the three quickly formed a triangular formation, much like the one they’d used while blazing the path through the minefield, and swept down together on the wall of Cylon ships, firing their board cannons in all directions. Cracks appeared in the Cylon ranks. A series of explosions blew up many of the close-flying craft into a million pieces. Apollo, Starbuck and Boomer went into a tight turn together and fled the counterattack. 

“That’s a few for the _Atlantia_ ,” Starbuck said darkly. 

“And for Zac,” Apollo added. 

Other Vipers from Blue and Green Squadrons came in with their guns blazing, and blasted way at the Cylon vessels. The wall of menace was quickly turning into a wall of fire and shattered spacecraft – not all of them Cylons, unfortunately. 

Reports were now coming in so fast that they were difficult to assimilate. Serina felt like a _crawlon_ in the centre of its web, trying to keep up with the abrupt changes of the scenery, but it was not an easy task. 

“Commander,” Tigh hurried up the gently curved, semi-circular gangway separating the bridge into higher and lower sections tow here Adama was standing, “the Cylon supreme task force seems to be retreating, at least for the moment. Should we give pursuit?” 

“Our warriors all request permission to locate and pursue the Cylon baseship,” Athena supplied. 

Adama, however, shook his head. “No; we must conserve our resources if we want to protect our people. Bring the fleet home, Colonel.” 

Tigh nodded and walked off to give the orders, his injured arm hanging forgotten on his side. Adama turned to his daughter. 

“Call the other ships. Tell them we’re heading back through the minefield corridor. We’ve got to get out of this trap, then accelerate all ships to maximum travelling velocity. I don’t know what exactly is going on down on Carillon, but we can’t afford to take any chances. We’ve got to get moving in case the whole planet blows up.” 

“Which is a distinct possibility,” Omega told him. “Scanners show a series of large fires on the planet surface, and there are multiple explosions above the Tylium mine.” 

“Exactly,” Adama said. “If it gets any worse down there, with a working minefield on one side and exploding Tylium on the other, we’d be between Diabolus and the deep blue. Colonel, have them all be prepared for emergency speed.” 

“Yes, sir,” Tigh replied through his headset, as he was currently on the other side of the bridge. “I’m on it.” 

He methodically hurried around the bridge as they set their course for the minefield corridor, barking orders in an extremely clipped tone that got everyone’s attention at once, directing the assembling of the fleet, the tricky flight through the minefield, and the subsequent landing of the fight squadrons. 

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Ten _centons_ later he walked up to Adama’s position again, looking worried. 

“Commander, everything is set for the passage through the minefield corridor,” he reported. “However, two of our warriors are overdue and unaccounted for.” 

Adama’s thick eyebrows drew together in concern and displeasure. “Who?” 

Tigh swallowed hard and Serina knew the answer before the colonel would open his mouth, because why else would he look so grim? 

“It’s Captain Apollo, sir,” he admitted unhappily. 

Adama went very still for a moment, his face showing no emotions. 

“Who else?” he then asked, although the answer was fairly obvious. Apollo and his wing-mate were all but joined at the hip, after all. 

“Starbuck,” Tigh replied, according to everyone’s expectations. 

“I see,” Adama’s face was cold and hard like stone. “Well… nothing we can do about it. Prepare the fleet to enter the corridor. The _Galactica_ will be the last ship to make the transit – that will give them the time to catch up with us… if they can. The rest of the fleet will go first. Those are your orders, Colonel.” 

“Yes, sir,” Tigh was already on the move to carry out those orders when Athena turned around with her chair. 

“Commander, we’re picking up pre-attack conversation on a Cylon frequency – between Purple and Orange Squadrons,” she said, clearly perplexed. “We don’t _have_ Purple and Orange Squadrons!” 

“Purple and Orange?” Adama repeated, sounding every bit as perplexed as she had and looked at Tigh askance. 

The colonel shrugged, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “Starbuck and Apollo?” he suggested. Adama closed his eyes for a moment. 

“God help them both. Colonel, send the rest of the fleet through the corridor. Then give me a real-time view of Carillon,” he added for Athena. 

Lowering the physical shields would have been too risky, considering the likely explosion of the planet, but the external sensors were able to provide a fairly realistic view, too. 

Athena switched the big screen back to real view, scanning the surface, and now they could all see the big fires raging all over the place, not only the mine. The Tylium below the surface was clearly burning. And rising above the rim of the burning planet, an ominous, grey double disc could be seen: unmistakably a Cylon basestar. 

“There it is,” Tigh murmured, “as ugly as ever. Lieutenant,” he turned to Athena, “can you put that pre-battle conversation on the loudspeakers? Let us hear what our young heroes are up to _now_.” 

Athena did as she was told, but for the time being there was no conversation on the Cylon frequency previously used by their star pilots. 

“Something is wrong,” Omega murmured. “Why are they bringing the basestar closer to the surface? They ought to know how risky that is, with all those explosions down there.” 

“Perhaps they still believe they’re being attacked by multiple squadrons and want to use the planet as a shield,” Tigh accepted a report from the sensor crew. “Sir, telemetry reports surface of Carillon reaching vapour point.” 

“It seems they’re realising that they’ve been cheated,” Omega commented, as the basestar opened fire at the Vipers they could still not see on the screen, being too small in comparison. “May be a little late for them, though.” 

Suddenly Apollo’s voice resounded all over the bridge. 

“Okay, Starbuck, let’s get out of here! All that Tylium’s blowing the planet apart.” 

“You won’t get any argument from me!” Starbuck replied, laughing. 

“Negative shield, _now_ ,” Adama ordered. 

Athena pushed the button with a well-manicured finger, but even in direct view, all they could see were the huge lightning bolts vibrating over the red rock formations on the surface, between planet and basestar. There were more and more of them by the micron, growing in length and thickness, crackling ominously, licking along the underside of the Cylon ship hungrily. 

“Commander, we must leave!” Tigh warned. “The planet’s gonna explode; if the shockwaves don’t tear us apart, the exploding minefield will!” 

“We can’t leave yet!” Athena whispered in distress. “Not while Apollo and Starbuck are still out there!” 

“We _must_ ,” Adama replied heavily. “We can’t put the whole ship at risk. We must get through the corridor, and get to safe distance from the minefield before the planet blows up. Best speed, Colonel!” 

“Yes, sir,” Tigh gave the orders, and the _Galactica_ lurched forward through the dangerous corridor at a breakneck speed and didn’t slow down until she joined the rest of the fleet, waiting on the other side. 

Barely had they caught up with the other ships, long range sensors showed Carillon blow up in a spectacular fireball, taking the Cylon basestar with into its fiery grave, leaving nothing but space debris in its wake. 

When they stopped seeing stars, Rigel turned around, her gentle face radiating joy and relief. 

“Commander, Landing Bay Alpha reports that Captain Apollo and Starbuck have just landed their Vipers. Sir, they’re both alive!” 

Serina saw Adama close his eyes in gratitude before her legs would give in and she collapsed in the middle of the bridge, fainting in relief. 


	17. Chapter 15 - Afterschocks and a New Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of the first part of this story. The sequel will deal with the events of “The Tombs of Kobol”, seen from a very different point of view.  
> The intricacies of Ovion procreation are taken from the novelization of the pilot; considering that it’s based on Glen A. Larsen’s original concept, it can be considered canon.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 15 – AFTERSHOCKS AND A NEW HOPE**

When she came to, she found herself in Life Station, being fussed over by one of the med techs – to her relief, it wasn’t the _socialator_. Apparently, Patroclus hadn’t found the time to draft her just yet.

“I can’t find anything wrong with you,” the med tech said. “Your blood test shows up normal enough; your blood pressure _is_ a bit high, but considering the recent events, that isn’t really surprising.”

“Why _did_ I faint then?” Serina asked. “That isn’t something I’m usually prone to, you know. I’m no wilting flower.”

“Perhaps not,” the med tech allowed, “but you’ve lived in a refugee camp for _sectares_ and were, as a result, severely malnourished. The excitement of the recent days must have played havoc with your circulation. Plus, Doctor Paye suspects that the Ovions have drugged the drinks; perhaps even the food, down there. He’s running a detailed analysis as we speak.”

“Has somebody ever found out why the Ovions were so friendly to us?” Serina asked, rising from the examination table carefully. She was still more than a little dizzy. “And what was that about the lower levels where no guest were allowed?”

The med tech nodded, her tired face becoming very grim.

“Turns out those were their breeding chambers,” she explained. “They put our people into some sort of pods, flooded the pods with tranquilizing gas and liquefied them there,” she lowered her voice as she added. “Captain Apollo and Lieutenant Starbuck saw people who were half-moulded with the pods already.”

Serina tried very hard _not_ to become sick, and won the struggle… barely.

“They were turning our people into food?”

“Apparently, they could extract the liquid through tubs attached to the pods to feed their little maggots with it. They told the captain that they could even absorb knowledge that way, not only nutrients and minerals, and…”

Serina didn’t hear the rest of the explanation. Losing the fight against her upset stomach, she stumbled into the turboflush, where she became violently ill. The med tech dashed after her, holding her head, lest she’d lose her balance and injure herself.

“So much about Elysium,” Serina commented, washing out her mouth. The med tech shrugged.

“Yeah, I’d rather live on rations than become food myself,” she replied. “Now, if you’re feeling better, I’ll have somebody escort you to your quarters, where you can have a proper wash and change clothes. Commander Adama has announced a celebration later in the evening, and your presence has been required, for whatever reason.”

Her tone revealed that she didn’t see Serina as part of the same league as the Commander and his family - which stung but was, sadly, very true.

“I guess I’m needed to make the official records,” Serina murmured. “It’s my job, after all.”

But deep down she made a malevolent little mental notice to put the med tech thoroughly in her place, as soon as she’d Sealed with Apollo. Not the same league? She’d show her. She’d show them all!

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Several _centares_ later she was sitting in the large room that had been assigned to the _Quorum of Twelve_ aboard the _Galactica_ , to host their regular meetings. Right now, it was hosting a celebration. A great number of people were sitting around the council table, _Quorum_ members, ranking officers and civilians who’d been invited for various reasons alike.

Adama sat at the head of the table, with _Sire_ Anton on his right and Colonel Tigh on his left. Apollo and Athena were sitting further down on his left, with Starbuck, Boomer and several other pilots who’d excelled in the most recent battle. Serina was seated between Apollo and Athena; opposite her, she was somewhat displeased to find Cassiopeia, wearing, for a change, something that didn’t exactly fit her. 

What the Hades was a _socialator_ doing at the Commander’s table? Was she here with one of the Councillors, having found a new patron already, or had Starbuck indeed dumped Athena in favour of someone a little more… _available_? Either way, having her here was an insult to Athena who was pretending not to see her.

At least the little tramp didn’t seem to enjoy her newly-won position, if her haunted eyes were any indication. Either it was Athena’s presence, or something must have happened to her in Carillon. Something truly traumatizing.

Serina forced her mind away from the _socialator_. Instead, she looked past the gathering at the starfield portal behind them. It seemed to her as if the stars in this part of space glittered more than anywhere else she’d ever been. She felt vaguely hopeful.

Commander Adama cleared his throat and raised his silver goblet to signal a toast. All around the table became silent. He took a moment to gaze at them before beginning his speech.

“I toast our victories and the achievement of our temporary goals,” he started.

“Hear, hear!” _Sire_ Anton said on his side.

“And I ask you to remember for a moment all those men and women who died in the Cylon invasion of the Twelve Worlds,” Adama continued, “or in the subsequent events, in which the warriors of our fleet fought so valiantly.”

They all rose to observe the obligatory _micron_ of silence, during which many of the assemblage bowed their heads in prayer. Serina was not one of those. She had lost her faith in any divine beings many _yahrens_ ago. Still, showing proper respect for the dead and for those who’d saved the still living felt the right thing to do.

When the _micron_ passed, Adama resumed his speech.

“I hope that out of this – all this tragedy – some good will come in the end. For I’m certain that we haven’t seen the end of treachery yet, either, be it the human sort, like Baltar’s, or coming from aliens, like the Ovions. We might have achieved a major victory today, but we must not think that this is the end of the Cylon threat.”

Serina glanced towards _Sire_ Uri, who was sitting among his fellow Councillors, wearing an expression of studied indifference.

“I’m surprised that your father did not include him on his list of villains,” she murmured. “After all, much of what happened on Carillon _was_ his fault.”

Apollo shrugged. “Perhaps his resignation from the temporary _Quorum_ has soothed Father’s anger towards him,” he replied, not really caring. For him, the world was in its right order again. Perhaps as a warrior he was used to see death and destruction all the time, and it had shaken him less.

“I wish to take this occasion,” Adama continued, “to officially announce my acceptance of the election as President of the temporary _Quorum_ and to thank you for electing me.”

“We didn’t _elect_ you,” Sire Anton interjected, his face reminding of a _vulpine_ in the middle of a flock of fowl. “We merely took back and tore up your resignation… until the proper elections begin to run their circle.”

“Be that as it may, I still thank you,” Adama replied. “Now that the immediate threat has been stopped, we can go seeking a place for our people; a place where we can settle in peace and grow again. A place where we can test our whole potential, not only our skills in warfare.”

“Are we talking about finding the Thirteenth Tribe again?” _Sire_ Geller asked with a scoff. “And about that theoretical planet our mythology calls Earth?”

“Oh, I do believe that Earth and the Thirteenth Tribe are more than just a myth,” Adama smiled. “And you will realize, if you take a look around you, that you are the only one who still scoffs when I mention Earth this time.”

“At least openly,” Apollo murmured in a low voice, meant for Serina’s ears only. “The others aren’t stupid enough to argue with Father right after he’s been proven right – again.”

If Adama caught his son’s cynical comment, he gave no sign, just went on with his toast.

“Perhaps now you believe that our little ragtag fleet can do it,” he said. “That we can indeed perform this lonely quest as we flee from Cylon tyranny; to discover anew the shining planet Earth. Ladies and gentlemen, as a toast I give you… hope.”

They all drank, although Serina was quite certain that the hope would only last until the first problems began to raise their ugly heads again. Such an exodus through unknown space, to a destination that might or might not exist at all, had the potential of spectacular failure – and a failure would mean the end of mankind, with or without Cylon help.

“Do you really believe that we can find this place, this Earth, Commander?” she asked quietly; she was seated close enough to Adama so that not many would hear them.

The old man nodded slowly. “Yes, I do. I also realize what you’re implying with your question, my dear: that we’re chasing a dream. But sometimes dreams _are_ worth chasing. Along the way, who can say what we may find; what we may learn.”

Serina raised a hand in mock defence. “Don’t misunderstand me, Commander. I’m on your side, and I hope with all my heart that your vision will prove true.”

Because really, what else _did_ they have to hold on to?

“I appreciate you saying that,” Adama replied mildly. “There have been times recently when I wasn’t entirely sure who was on my side – including some who were quite close to me.”

He didn’t look at Apollo directly, but the hint was even so clear enough. The young captain stared at the table before him stonily, while Athena, leaning over between their backs, laid a consoling hand on her father’s arm.

“But let’s not dwell on such matters,” Adama said after a moment of tense silence. “This is a time for joy, after all.”

There was general agreement around the table about that, and Apollo, leaning closer to Serina, murmured in a conspiratorial manner.

“If this _is_ a time of joy, as my father says, how comes that you are not celebrating?”

“Oh, I am!” she protested with a somewhat forced smile, but Apollo wasn’t buying it.

“Doesn’t look so to me. In fact, you look a bit down in the mouth.”

She gave him a surprised glance. “Does it show?”

As a rule, she was better at hiding her true feelings behind a permanently cheerful, radiant mask. Perhaps she was just out of practice. How long had it been since she’d last appeared on Transmission? It seemed _yahrens_ now.

Apollo nodded sagely. “Yes, it does. And you’re way too beautiful to look so sad.”

Serina rolled her eyes. “Drop the cheesy pick-up lines, please. You know I’m perceptive to you without them.”

Now he was looking at her in honest surprise. “You are?”

She frowned at him. “Apollo, I don’t know what people have told you about me, but I don’t usually sleep with every man who happens to come my way. Not even if I’m tipsy on _grog_ that has been spiked with drugs by some man-eating insects.”

He shrugged. “That wasn’t what I meant. But in desperate times people tend to seek some human warmth by whomever they can find it. There’s nothing wrong with _that_. Now, can you tell me what makes you so sad?”

“Well, it’s… it’s Boxey,” she admitted. “He may not be my real son, but we’ve become very close. I just can’t be happy with him so miserable.

Apollo nodded in understanding. “I met him out on the hallway not so long ago. He didn’t look so cheerful. What’s wrong?”

Serina sighed. “It’s Muffit Two. Boxey’s moping about losing him.”

“If that’s all, I think I can help,” Apollo said, smiling.

“How?” she asked. “By having Doctor Wilker build a new one? It wouldn’t be the same, and children can be very particular about their favourite toys. My little Maboc sure as Hades was, and I have the feeling that Boxey would turn out the same.”

“Actually, I don’t have to order a new droid built,” Apollo clarified. “One of the shuttle pilots picked up Muffit by their last run. Doctor Wilker will have it fixed in no time.”

“Fixed? What happened to him?”

“Brie says he bit a Cylon in the leg; the armour of the Cylon got short-circuited, and it fell onto Muffit, flattening him. But Wilker says it’s gonna be a fairly easy repair job,” he looked at Serina expectantly. “Do you want to go and tell Boxey the good news?”

Serina slumped in her seat in relief. As annoying as she found the daggit-droid sometimes, she couldn’t deny that it had saved Boxey at one point, giving the boy back the joy in life. Knowing that she’d be able to return that joy to him again was more than she’d hoped for.

More than the mere knowledge that they’d survived the Cylon trap on Carillon, in fact.

“The first time you gave him that annoying droid, I told you that I owed you one,” she said to Apollo, her voice heavy with unshed tears. Now, after all that’s happened lately, I realize that I owe you _everything_. You’ve saved so much more than just our lives…”

“No need to get all emotional over a little favour,” Apollo murmured, looking uncomfortable.

Serina laughed through her tears. “Oh, shut up, Apollo, and let me hug you!”

“I’d prefer if you hugged me in private,” he replied, his green eyes smouldering.

“That can be arranged,” she agreed. “ _After_ the celebration, and after we’ve told Boxey the good news.”

“It’s a deal,” Apollo squeezed her hand under the table briefly, looking supremely content.

She squeezed back and looked out through the great window at the star-spotted blackness of space. Somewhere out there the Cylons were still looking for them – and sooner or later, they’d find them. The thousand- _yahren_ -war was lost, but it was still far from being over. Yet they had survived, against all odds, and now they had a goal again, even if they _were_ chasing a dream. The Colonies were lost – but they were still alive and had just begun life again.

Perhaps Commander Adama was right. Perhaps some dreams _were_ worth chasing.

~The End~

Soledad Cartwright@2012-05-10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will be continued in "On the Wings of Freedom" - eventually.


End file.
